That story that particularly resonated with me was his discussion of his father’s belts. His mother had carefully preserved them in a box. They had belonged to her husband, and she couldn’t bring herself to part with them.

I understand that feeling so deeply. Bob’s belts are still hanging in our closet, exactly where he left them. Years have passed, and I still haven’t moved them.

It’s not that I haven’t made changes. I have. Many of his clothes have been lovingly transformed into a quilt that I sleep beneath every night. His shoes have been shared with our son and others. I’ve found ways to preserve some things, share others, and let still others go.

But those belts are different. They aren’t taking up space I need. They aren’t preventing me from living my life. They’re simply hanging where he left them. And I find comfort in knowing that his hands were the last to place them there. I like to think that part of him, his DNA, is still on them. 

I can’t fully explain why those particular belongings mean so much to me. Perhaps I don’t need to.

Sometimes the things we keep aren’t about the objects themselves. They’re about the love, the memories, and the ordinary moments of a life we shared.

Those belts are a small, tangible reminder that Bob was here. That we had a life together. That the everyday things we once took for granted have become precious.

I don’t know whether I’ll ever move them.

And I’ve come to understand that I don’t have to decide.