WSR Column: My Husband’s Drawer

By Carol Tannenhauser

I know there are people out there who have organized drawers. (I spoke to one woman who said even her junk drawer is neat.)

My husband of 53 years and I were just not among them.

Even when we lived together in a loft on First Avenue and East 61st Street in 1970, which had no drawers, we were organizationally challenged. My husband inherited the fourth-floor walk-up from a fraternity brother who left his furnishings, consisting of a black naugahyde pull-out couch and a headboard that stood in the middle of the room, its surface always completely covered with stuff – stuff that stayed with us through four apartments finding its way into random drawers when we finally did get furniture that featured them.  

The night-table drawer that used to be mine, for example, holds a journal, a pen, an emery board, three non-working watches, four bangle bracelets, a set of unknown keys, eclipse glasses, a tape measure, unopened Italian flash cards, and a harmonica.

And that is nothing compared to my husband’s.

I don’t know what possessed me to tackle it one recent Sunday morning, almost exactly three months after he died. Maybe I was remembering the words of another widow, who told me how she coped with the early months of mourning by accomplishing one thing a day, no matter how small. I counted getting out of bed, as it was often the best I could do. Better than lying there crying and thinking, nothing can fill the void he leaves. I am floating in it, weightless, rudderless. I am unmoored, untethered. Un, un, un. I am alone, partnerless in the world.

This particular Sunday, just around the three-month mark, I was determined to do something productive. I decided to clean out his top night-table drawer. I’ve taken over his side of the bed anyway because the view of the TV is better, so his drawer is now mine. But all I had put in it in three months is a tiny bottle of eyedrops for glaucoma.

The drawer contained so much random stuff that you had to jiggle it to open it and move things around to close it. My plan had been to dump the entire contents of the drawer into a garbage bag and put it out with the trash, but it didn’t turn out that way. I pondered every item, remembering who he was: a CEO, hard of hearing, disabled, determined, stoic, generous.

I got about an eighth of the way through it, tossing what was irrefutably garbage, leaving the rest, including multiple wallets and watches, hearing aids and batteries, old business and credit cards, devices to strengthen his hands and help him button his shirts, shoehorns to help him slide his leg braces into his shoes, a two-dollar bill, and countless unidentified keys.

All this survived the first purge.

I remembered that one of the wallets that survived the purge never left the drawer and was always filled with money, 100s, 20s, 10s. I used to jokingly call it the “magic wallet.” It was perpetually replenished by my husband without a word and through no effort of my own. Now, “no effort of my own” leads to an empty wallet. The magic is gone. I must go to the bank.

In truth, this cluttered drawer is the least of my problems. His closet is still filled with flannel shirts and jeans. I gave away his suits easily enough to an organization that helps formerly homeless men get jobs; they need them for interviews. When I get another burst of energy, I’ll give them the dress shirts, freshly laundered, that fill an entire drawer of his dresser. That will be one fell swoop. I feel no attachment to his dress clothes, although, for a reason I don’t quite understand, I do feel sentimental about his ties.

I wonder if this purging process is premature, or even necessary at all? I have more than enough space for my things. Maybe I’ll just keep his stuff forever, leave the decisions to the kids about what to throw away. I know all of it could go in an instant and never be missed. Who would want his hearing aids? What good are his expired credit cards, or his business card, even if it represents the happiest time of his life? Who knows the volumes it speaks? Who cares? 

After my purge, the drawer closed a little easier, but not much.

Addendum: My son came over later in the morning and emptied the drawer in five minutes. He saved a few pictures, the keys, the working watches, pocketed the two-dollar bill, took some credit cards to shred, and tossed the rest. You can read his tribute to his father, the late co-owner of the Rag — HERE.

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