It’s Just a Book

Several years ago, before Cooper returned to college and earned his forestry degree, he was unsure of his path. Around that same time, I’d stumbled onto a book series, C.J. Box’s Joe Pickett series, about a Wyoming game warden. I shared the books with Coop, who quickly read through the series. He’d always loved the idea of the West and a more stripped down lifestyle. Those of us who have read the books and knew Cooper felt there was a connection － that he chose to study forestry because it could lead to that “out West” life.

Pre-ordering the new Joe Pickett book became a tradition. I’d have the book shipped to wherever Coop was living, and he’d always be as excited as Cooper got. Some years, he’d read the book that day; other years, he had to wait until the end of the semester. No matter the timing, he always read the book, then passed it on to my dad. The three of us loved that series. This year, the book went straight to Dad.

It’s such a strange and silly thing, to buy a book Cooper will never read, but that’s the situation. I’ve written about random items or words eliciting a surprisingly emotional reaction, but there seems to be an endless supply of things I keep doing because stopping seems wrong. I couldn’t not order the book, as if that decision would close a chapter I’m still trying to read.

I bought a book that Cooper will never read, but his dresser is still full of his clothes and his shoes are still in the basket at the back door. I put his hamper in his closet, but his last dirty clothes are still dirty. Will they stay dirty and in that hamper forever? Maybe. His cap, glasses, wallet, and last pack of cigarettes－the few possessions the funeral director could give us the day after Coop died－are tucked in the top drawer of his dresser and his hiking pack is in the closet. I’m just not ready.

Coop had a serious knife collection. Thousands of dollars worth of knives. He loved the craftsmanship of custom knives. Some knives he designed himself, but most were from knife makers he met in knife forums. Yes, that’s a thing. Before Christmas, I took pictures of all of Coop’s good knives. His siblings got first pick, then I selected knives to gift specific people, mainly immediate family.

Knives and books and personal belongings in a hamper and dresser don’t connect, but the link they share is Cooper. I don’t know what I’ll do with Cooper’s clothing, but the thought of getting rid of it, of never seeing it again, freaks me out. Until I stop reacting like that － until my stomach doesn’t tighten at the thought － the clothes will stay. I suspect I’ll always keep the few items he had with him when he died. They may occupy a corner of a keepsake box instead of a corner of his top dresser drawer, but I can’t imagine throwing out the last things he touched.

The knives were different. I didn’t throw them away or sell them or lose track of them. I know where each knife lives, and there’s a reason for each pairing. They are with people who love and miss Cooper and will treasure that connection to him. Sharing the knives was the right choice.

With the other possessions, I think it’s the finality that bothers me. I’m okay with the knives, because they aren’t gone; they just live somewhere else. The rest of Cooper’s things are still here or at the farm and will be for a while. He didn’t have a house or apartment to empty; he had a room and a car. He had so few things, that non-materialistic mountain man of mine, and I’m not ready to let them go.

The most important connections to Coop are invisible. Intangible. They live in me, not in his dresser or hamper. I’ll never have to sort through memories, deciding which to keep, which to pitch, and which to donate. I know that. And logically, I know that his few possessions aren’t what matter. Right now － healthy or not, crazy or not － I need to keep his things as they are. I need to be able to find them, see them, touch them. Hold them to my face as I cry. I waved goodbye as I left for work one morning, fully expecting to spend that evening with Cooper. I thought I’d find him exactly where I’d left him, on the couch, both of us back home after work. Instead, I never saw him again. Minutes after I came home to an empty house, the coroner was at my door, asking me to come outside, gently touching my shoulder as he broke my heart with his words. Until the shock of that day fades, I need to be able to come home and find Cooper’s things precisely where I left them.

Change is hard. Permanence is terrifying. Permanent change is just too much right now. I’ve had about as much permanent change as I can handle. So, I gift the knives and keep the clothes. I’m learning that timelines in grief are a myth; I’ll make these changes when I’m ready. If I’m ready. As for the new book in Cooper’s favorite series? My dad should probably get used to the new C.J. Box novel magically appearing on his doorstep the very day it’s released.