A Check I Don’t Want to Deposit
I have a
check tucked next to my leg as I type. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to it since
it came. I’ve been staying away from it.
When the
nice cream envelope came from the lawyer's office I knew what was inside. I
opened the envelope and read the brief utterly formal letter. It a was a letter
only a legal professional that numbly (I realize by necessity!) traffics in the
affairs of dead people every day could possibly write. With a few formal words it
was clear that an era of my life was drawing to a close.
From the
letter I turned my attention to the check. Surprising even myself I said quietly
in my own heart, “So this is the end huh…”
This particular
check is more than a piece of paper with print on it. Its denotation indicates
an amount of money given to me upon the final settlement of the estate of a
dear family friend. Its connotation indicates that this family friend (Bill)
who I was privileged to know for over 25 years is no longer available to
enjoy.
There are
no more Christmas or New Years memories to be made, no more summer days to
relax by the lake, no more frogs for my boys to catch in the creek. My daughter
Joy won’t even know what we mean when we say “Bill’s cottage”.
Oddly
that’s perhaps where my grief is most clear. Joy will neither know “Bill” nor the
place that was so special to me that many years ago I convinced my future wife
to visit it in the dead of winter when not even a roaring fire could warm us up.
Joy not knowing Bill or his cottage ranks up there with my grandmother never
knowing my wife as “one of the things I wish was different in the world.”
New
memories with Bill can’t be made. I hope old memories won’t run away like the
tears on my cheeks are at present.
I haven’t
been able to sign the check yet. Like I said, we’ve been keeping our distance. To
sign it seems to me to agree that it’s okay that Bill is gone. Though I trust
God and His perfect timing of all the affairs of men, my keeping my distance
from the check is a way for me to express that I don’t yet know how to be okay with
him being gone.
It’s odd
that although Bill’s death was over two years ago, it wasn’t real until the
moment I looked at the check. Odd, I know. Grief is that way. It’s unique and
individual hitting people seemingly randomly like a sucker punch from behind.
My mother
had been the executor. It seems amazing that all the technical details we had
discussed on settling the estate were now finished. Bill’s bills were paid,
professionals remunerated, taxes satisfied, and now came the end when the checks
were mailed out, one each for my brother and I. On the face of the check there
in my mother’s own handwriting was the proof that indeed he was gone.
I had to
write this before I could deposit the check. To deposit it without writing
a lament seemed inappropriate. On the other hand, to not deposit a check revealing
Bill’s love for my family and I would be effrontery, refusing his generosity.
Appropriate to the man who got me started in technology, I’ll use a mobile app
to deposit his last gift of love.
As soon
as I post this and after few more big breaths blown through my lips, I’m going
to pull out my pen and sign the check. I hope iPhone screens are okay with a
few tears on them.