The Things that have Nowhere to Go

 

Since losing Jess, I’ve watched how grief slips quietly into places I never expected. Lately, it has shown up on the shelves and in the boxes that hold the small artifacts of my life and the lives that came before mine.

 
At first, I thought this was just another wave of missing her, but I am starting to see it as something else: a kind of memory sadness that gathers in the things she never got to choose.

When I was in my thirties, I honestly didn’t think I would ever have children. It wasn’t something I worried about or even spent much time considering. Life felt full enough. I didn’t question how the story would keep unfolding, or through whom it would continue.

Lately, though, I’ve been noticing something that catches me off guard. I feel this deep sadness whenever I look around at the things I’ve kept, the small remembrances from my own life, my parents', and my grandparents' lives. These little treasures, once carrying meaning I was eager to share, now just sit quietly, waiting for a next chapter that may never come.

What’s been hardest to face is realizing that Jess won’t be here to decide what to keep. I don’t even know if she would have wanted any of it. But her absence makes everything feel untethered. There’s a hollow space where a future once sat.

Before Jess was born, I never thought much about the things I collected: the old photos, the trinkets, the stuff with stories were simply mine to keep. But once Jess was here, I started to imagine little pieces of myself, and those of my parents and grandparents, continuing through her. The thought that she might someday hold those things and make them part of her own life made the past and the future feel profoundly connected.

When I didn’t have a child, that connection wasn’t something I missed. But now it feels like a thread has been cut, and I am left holding all these things, not knowing where they belong. It is a sadness that has crept in quietly, not just for the objects themselves, but for the sense of continuity they once promised.

I’ve even told friends that I might start a storytelling giveaway. I could post a picture of each item and write a little note, such as: “This was my grandmother’s,” or “This reminded me of home.” I’d then invite people to tell me why they’d want it. Whoever shared the most heartfelt story would get to keep it. It sounds funny, but the idea comforts me; it feels like a way to ensure these pieces of a life keep on living somewhere.

I look around and see shelves of stories with nowhere to land. Every object seems to hum with the memory of a life that once included her. There’s the very fragile but “very so cute” porcelain rabbit she always wanted to play with. Every few years, she would tell me, with great seriousness, that she was finally big enough to keep it in her room, and I always promised that someday she would. It still sits where it always has, and now it feels like it is waiting, too.

There is the vase from my grandmother that I thought she might want when she was older, and the small framed plaque she received for the compassion she showed her fellow students, a piece that still holds its meaning but has lost its destination.

I do not know what will become of these things. For now, they stay where they are, keeping company with the memories that made them matter. One day, I may know what to do, or perhaps I never will. Either way, they remain a part of the story that keeps unfolding, even when I cannot see where it goes.