Dear Melissa,

Last night I slept in your room.  Even though you have been gone from this house for over a decade, it still is hard not to think of it as your room.  Since Mom had knee surgery yesterday, she needs lots of bedspace for her pillows, so I moved to your room for a few nights.  As I lay there on the sofa bed, I thought “This is where Uncle Brewer’s bed was.”

You remember it.  The old metal head and foot frames of white painted iron, about 4 inches in diameter, with vertical iron rods about 6 inches apart across the width of head and foot, connecting the tubular frame to the base, and little brass finials on each rod.  And little wooden wheels about one and a half inches in diameter for casters.  The bed had belonged to my grandfather’s older brother, Brewer Pevey, to whom my mother has always referred as Uncle Brewer.  It was a hand-me-down, something with some heritage that you got to experience first-hand.

Now Uncle Brewer’s bed is gone.  For a few years after you married and left, we kept it as a nap (and often trampoline) facility for the boys.  In our efforts to “upgrade” your room a year or so ago, we decided to turn it into more of a playroom.  So we gave the bed to someone who needed one and bought the sleeper sofa and large ottoman that now stores innumerable Lego sets and Transformers and assorted toys.  Where you used to sit up in the bed to do your homework, now we find Will and Owen spending hours piloting Lego starships around Planet Ottoman and building civilizations at war on and around the sofa cushions.  From that perspective, I suppose it was a good choice to let the old go and replace it with the new.

Many of my clients bemoan the fact that their parents kept too much old stuff that the kids will have to cull and dispose of.  But some of that stuff holds memories.  “Reminiscence” is the human predisposition to reflect back on events, places and people that made some valuable contribution to the development of our values and belief systems.  I lay awake awhile thinking about some of the impact Uncle Brewer’s bed might have had in your life, and surely had in mine.

I recall the night – a weekend night while you were a college senior – when I found you after midnight huddled against the head of that bed, knees clutched under your chin, eyes desperately searching for something not there.  You were struggling with some serious personal issues not of your own making at the time, and you had bravely let us into your struggle for help.  When I asked what was wrong, you questioned how we could love you in light of how fractured your life had become.  One memory, and the most meaningful, that I will always carry of that night is climbing up against that iron bed frame and holding you tight for an hour while trying to calm you with the assurance that nothing could happen to dilute the tremendous love we have for you.  Since then, you have been strong enough to get through and beyond those struggles and to be the strong wife and mother for your own family.  That experience helped me to understand the important human connection made when adult children may hold their frail older parents tight and assure them that their lives have been worthwhile, even though the elders question if they have “been there enough” for their kids.

One other thought I had about Uncle Brewer’s bed is how you never complained about having to accept a hand-me-down.  You have always tried to live your life moving forward, not looking back and making excuses about what you did not have.  As the (identical twin) sibling of a sister with significant disabilities, that amazes me.  I would think that many able-bodied siblings form some resentment about getting less time, attention and resources than their siblings with special needs – including left-over furniture.  I am glad you felt (as Mom and I did) that having the antique bed was somehow a blessing because of its heritage rather than a curse because it was just old.  I know that you can use your experience to help others similarly situated understand that they are valued just as much, even though the care needs of others may take extra time and effort.

So you see, you and Uncle Brewer’s bed went through a lot together and shared deeply meaningful lessons with me – even though you didn’t know it.  Thanks for that.

I love you.   Dad.

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