Hug Please
Pepper Scott
There are some things in this house that make cleaning almost impossible.
It isn’t just the twenty-plus years of things Terry and I collected together, although there is certainly enough of that to keep me busy until approximately the next century. And then there is Terry’s stuff, the things that followed him from one place to another long before our lives became one.
But the truth is, none of it is really about the stuff.
It is the layers of memories stacked on top of it.
We never cared much about possessions for the sake of possessing them. We used to say, “We won’t take it with us when we are gone.” And that is certainly true. Neither of us ever imagined needing a moving truck on the way to the great beyond.
But while we are still here, those things have a way of stopping us in our tracks.
A book becomes a conversation.
A photograph becomes an afternoon.
A forgotten piece of paper becomes a story I haven’t thought about in years.
And suddenly, there I am, standing in the middle of the room, holding something in my hand and remembering instead of cleaning.
Today, I found this tucked inside one of the books.
It came from one of Terry’s childhood friends.
I stopped.
Of course I did.
It is a little hand-drawn figure with its arms stretched wide and the words, “hug please.” Someone carefully laminated it, as if this tiny piece of childhood was important enough to protect. On the back, there is affectionate handwriting filled with sentiment.
I looked at it and thought, yes.
Of course.
That was Terry.
He was a person who lived and loved. And he was loved, deeply, by so many people.
I was never surprised by the stories people told me about him after he was gone. I heard from friends, classmates, coworkers, teachers, neighbors. It seemed everyone had a Terry story tucked away somewhere.
Apparently, he had been collecting them long before I came along.
This little note made me think about the “fine young man” his teacher appreciated so much, a boy who apparently understood very early that there were more important things in life than sitting quietly inside a classroom.
Like standing outside and waving at people driving by.
For more time than he probably should have.
That image cracked me up.
I can just see him.
And somehow, that is what I love about finding things like this. They do not always make me sad. Sometimes they open a little window, and there he is again.
Not sick.
Not gone.
Just Terry.
A young man making people laugh.
A friend leaving pieces of himself in the hearts of other people.
A man who lived a life full enough that, decades later, a tiny laminated drawing can stop me in my tracks.
So maybe the cleaning can wait a little longer.
I know Terry continues living in the fond memories of many of us. I am grateful for that.
And today, instead of feeling sad about this little piece of his past, I feel proud.
Proud of the boy.
Proud of the man.
And incredibly grateful that I got to be the one who loved him for all those years.
I just miss my best friend.
The love of my life.
But every now and then, I find a little piece of him waiting for me in a book.
And for a moment, it feels a little like a big hug.
