In facing the loss of all a computer holds these days, replacing papers and photos and lists and thoughts, I looked around and wondered about reaction.
Of course I felt the fool in not having backed up all the files and yet, I wasn’t real upset about the loss in general. I have two, maybe three hard drives full of "stuff" that I haven’t tried very hard to recover. More upsetting was the fact that the most upsetting was the loss of all the files on the estate and probate; much of it evidence in proving how bad my sister’s acting in the handling of it all. How sad that this should need to mean so much.
I’ve lost stories, poems, a novel I believe on lifeless hard drives. What does it matter after all? In looking around at what we have and call possessions, there’s not much I would grieve over for very long. Old photos, sentimental things like rosary beads and small gifts of special jewelry, my mother’s sewing scissors, her drawings, my father’s shirts. Those, lost forever, would take longer to accept. I sit here faced with the shelves and shelves of carefully selected and acquired books. That would be tough to lose and yet they’re likely every one of them replaceable.
I remember going through my dad’s house after he died, the first few times knowing that my sister could use most of the furniture and things, and what I didn’t need or have a connection to I never thought of taking. Going back again after the troubles started; taking a more serious look because I knew I’d never see these things again. I took a tiny vase, a worn-out knife; everything fit in one shopping bag.
Things are things whether they are touched or merely written down and read. Things are only things.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology