the surprise of grief

Paris, 1985

When Vicky was living here with me one of the most enjoyable and hilarious things we would do was take a trip to IKEA to check out the room settings and all the really great cheap goodies. The pots and pans, the bedding and towels, the funky rugs, and of course the "Last Chance for Tea Lights" signs throughout the store. We would go early, have a $3 breakfast, including the wonderful coffee, then wander through the store for a couple of hours, commenting along the way at the brilliance of the Scandinavian gift for using space, color and plastic. We'd pick up an item or two, including Lingonberry jam, and head home completely satisfied by our outing.

On Friday, on my way back from seeing the foot doc, I stopped in at our store to pick up some items for the beach house; tea lights and a new glass lamp just like the one I broke before we left in May. I walked through the housewares, checked out the dishes, pots and pans, then through the soft goods ~ sheets, towels, rugs ~ and into the storage items ~ boxes and files. Suddenly I utterly lost it. I burst into tears and had to sit down for a bit to recover. Why this place? Why amid the various filing and storage boxes? It took me about 20 minutes to recover my composure. A very kind IKEA employee leaned over and said, "Are you OK?" No, I sobbed, but I will be. "I just miss my sister." She was somewhat confused by my response, as was I. Vic loved this particular section of the store. She was one to buy all sorts of boxes and files, thinking it would help her get organized. There was no system for sale in any store in the universe to accomplish that. She was hopelessly disorganized, but her attempts to get a grip on the ephemera of her life were heroic.


One of the treasures I brought home after the memorial was a box filled with various cards. I remember when she bought the box and fashioned the dividers from manila folders. There are birthday, congratulation, sympathy, holiday and blank cards, all neatly filed away. The only problem is that she was a terrible correspondent. Weeks would go by and I wouldn't hear from her. I have no idea how long all these cards have been filed so neatly, awaiting only a personal message to be sent on their way. I think she just liked collecting them, knowing that if she ever wanted to send one she would have it close at hand. But they are now in my custody and I will use them as the occasions arise, thinking of her every time I lift the box's lid.

Oh Vicky, what times we had.