The rusty blue dumpster behind Second Chance Animal Shelter towers above me. Wedging one foot into a corner, I pull myself up and over the ledge, balancing on mounds of plastic garbage bags. Ripping open the nearest one, I begin to search.
Working at the animal shelter is my first job since my 17-year-old daughter’s life ended on a stormy country road two years earlier. Like the turquoise green earrings Ellen was wearing, my heart and spirit were crushed into bits. In my previous life, I was a teacher. I have always loved interacting with young people, the give and take of the classroom, the excitement of new ideas. But now, young voices are excruciating.
In the surreal weeks and months that followed Ellen’s accident, teaching myself to play the songs she had written became the only thing holding me here. A natural musician, she had taught herself to play guitar and had written four dozen songs in only a year and a half. Through an unimagined sequence of events, gradually I began performing her music, to share her with others, and keep her present, in a sense. It became the one thing that offered any purpose.
Now, working with animals in the shelter also provides some comfort. They each have stories of loss. I sing to them as I work. On this particular morning, however, I don’t sing. I have twice the usual number of runs and cages to clean, so I hustle from cell to cell, quickly changing my plastic gloves between each. Though something feels odd, I am too focused, moving too fast, to fully notice. It isn’t until I get home that I realize what.
When Ellen’s belongings returned to me after the crash, I began wearing the iridescent opal ring I’d given her when she’d turned 13. Suddenly her ring is not on my finger. This is the second treasure of hers that I have lost. A small, lopsided stone, reminiscent of a heart, on which she had lettered I ♡ U Mom, had been worn smooth by my fingers’ unconscious reassurance that it was still in my pocket. Until one day it wasn’t.
The loss of these things is a manifestation and magnification of my bigger loss. These objects are tangible representations of her that I can carry. They are things she touched and made and cared about. I know they cannot replace her; they can’t bring her back. But they were hers. Each new loss is a deeper reminder that she isn’t going to return. If she were still here, a ring would just be a ring, a stone would be a stone. Now these things symbolize her—they provide a physical presence that I can hold.
The ring is really gone. Despite hours of searching, I can’t find it inside any of the gloves in any of the garbage bags in the entire dumpster. Maybe it washed down a drain while I scrubbed the animals’ dishes. Or perhaps it slipped off as I walked with Ellen’s dog after work in the chilly October woods.
It’s not coming back. Ellen isn’t coming back. But I can’t stop searching.
Naomi Bindman’s poetry and prose has appeared in magazines and literary journals, including Mothering, Friends Journal, El Portal Literary Journal and South Florida Poetry Journal. They won Dogwood Journal’s Creative Nonfiction Award and received funds from the Vermont Arts Council and Vermont Humanities Council. Naomi is on the faculty of the Vermont State Colleges. Her memoir, You’re the Words I Sing, the story of Naomi’s journey back to life performing the songs of her daughter, Ellen, is currently on submission with major publishers. A film based on the memoir is in active development with a leading Hollywood company. This essay is drawn from a chapter in the memoir.
Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.
Recommended reading on possessions:
“A Meditation on (Moving) Stuff” by Sara Stibitz, a ladderto the stars
“Collection: Hands” by Michael Horvich
“How do you decide what to keep of your parents’ stuff?” by Joy V. 🌵, The Shrieking Cactus
“Thrift Shopper Was Told Her New Ring Was Worthless. Then She Took It to a Cash for Gold Exchange” by Ashley Vega, People
“The Strange Business of Selling People Their Own Family’s Photos” by David Pogue, New York
“The ‘Pokémon princess’ with a £90m card collection” by Emily Smith, The Telegraph
Heartbreaking but real. Your essay moved me to tears.
A sad but wonderful story; I am sorry for the loss of your daughter. Wander with me, if you will, to wonder if the loss of the ring is a gentle nudge, maybe from your daughter, that she wishes you to step forward into the future now. This you cannot do with one foot firmly in the past, possibly bound by the ring—and endless circle. You will always have your daughter in your heart, and you will never lose that.