The Clothes He Wore - Why I Didn't Pack Up My Beloved's Possessions After His Death

My partner, Ishaq, used to make a joke that if it weren't for wives and girlfriends, a lot of men would run around naked. He absolutely hated shopping for clothes. I was the one who would buy the shirts and pants and socks and underwear for him. He never let me get rid of any of the old tee shirts either, telling me "but that one's special!" even when there were so many holes and tears in it that it looked like Swiss cheese.

I loved shopping for him. Since we were musicians in a band that played for belly dancers, finding him ethnic hats and vests was a challenge and a joy. I searched the import stores and thrift shops to find special pieces for him to wear on stage, as well as finding him regular work clothes for his day job at the American Red Cross.

When Ishaq passed away last summer, I gave a few of his belongings away to friends and family. I often felt that he was guiding me to give a certain shirt or item to some one who it would have special meaning for. Ishaq was a teacher of Sufism, a Sheikh in two different Sufi orders, so many of his personal items were spiritual in nature, imbued with his baraka, his essence. A diabetic since he was nine years old, his occasional brushes with death due to this illness had led me to ask him about certain possessions, about whom they should go to if he should die. I knew who to pass on his Sheikh's robe to, and that his old guitar should go to one of his sons. The rest of his possessions would be left for me to decide where they went and what to do with them.

Ishaq passed suddenly and unexpectedly, of a massive heart attack on July 28, 2006. He was only fifty-five. I had always known on some level that he could die young, but I tried to push it out of my mind and not dwell on it. Still, I don't think we are ever prepared for the death of our beloveds, especially when they are our soul mates. It leaves an emptiness that only someone else who has experienced this kind of loss can truly understand.

As the weeks went on after his passing, people began to ask me if I thought about moving from our home. I was surprised by these questions - this was the home we had made together, gardened at, made love in! How could I leave it? One conversation with a friend involved her saying that if I hadn't packed up and gotten rid of his things in six months, then she'd be coming to help me. This shocked me. Why should I give away all his possessions, just because he wasn't living in a body anymore? I feel that when we die we continue, in another form, but we still go on. Ishaq has come to me in dreams and visions very clearly since his passing, and I have no doubt that I will be with him when my time comes. Until then, I live here in this earth space, and his possessions bring me comfort and remind me of the ten and half years we lived together so happily.

As I write this, I'm wearing a green sweatshirt that belonged to Ishaq. It's the sweatshirt he was wearing on the night we first got together. Next to my bed is a small Persian carpet where his slippers still sit, with mine next to them. I wear his prayer beads for my Sufi practices, and his embroidered hats and vests for performances. And I sleep in his tee shirts and yoga pants.

To some, this may seem strange, or unsettling, like I'm not "moving on". That's another concept that I've thought a lot about over the past months. Some cultures won't even speak of those who have passed on, because it might attract them and cause them to hang around and affect the living. Other people feel that it may keep the person who has died from moving on. I believe that Ishaq has changed forms, that he has "evolved" to a new level of consciousness. And I certainly don't believe he is going to walk back through the door and want his jacket back. For some people, packing up and giving away their loved one's belongings is necessary. Having constant reminders around of what or whom they have lost can be unbearable. I'm trying to live a different story - one where the possessions left behind can bring comfort to me and those others that loved Ishaq. He has three grown children - Christmas and birthdays I've tried to give them each something that belonged to their father. I hope to keep doing this throughout the years.

Ishaq left behind a strong legacy of spiritual music and teachings, which I have been working with transcribing and re-recording. But the little things that can bring those that loved him closer to his memory, like a shirt, or a pair of socks, or a favorite book - those I couldn't possibly give away to a Goodwill or other thrift shop, to possibly end up in a landfill if they didn't sell. They are impermanent things, yes, but they hold certain energy, and if they can bring me or someone else who loved him comfort, than I feel that keeping them is a healthy, positive thing.

We each have to heal in our own way, in our own time. This is the way I'm learning to live my life, alone in some ways, but still guided by my beloved. I've never been much of a conformist; it seems to make sense that I'm creating my own traditions and processes around death and dying. And while I'm doing it, I'll probably be wearing one of my beloved Ishaq's shirts!