I work in a thrift store one morning a week. My primary function is to sift through donations and to decide which items are suitable for sale in our little volunteer run shop. It’s an experience, let me tell you.

Some bags or boxes of donations are a real window into the lives of their donors, and I often find myself creating a character sketch of the person who lived in these clothes, or cast off these decorative items. 

I’ve decided it might be an illuminating experience to write more about these musings; I’ll call the series ‘Other people’s things’.

Yesterday, a man dropped off 5 bags of clothes, assuring me that everything was clean. He was careful to tell me that he wasn’t one of those people who just dumped off junk. He went through everything carefully to ensure all items were in good condition.

I’d gone with him to his vehicle to help carry things in, and during this time he told me that his wife had just died a month ago. As he handed over the last bag, which happened to be made of transparent plastic, he stopped and placed his hand on the bag and said he could still picture his wife in that dress.

We often get donations from bereaved family members and I do my best to interact with these donors with gentleness and care. I want to be sure that at least this process is as comforting as possible.

Later that morning as I was processing this donation I found that the clothing wasn’t in any way special. It wasn’t any cleaner or well-cared for than any other donation. And I’d wondered briefly at his insistence that we know that ‘everything was clean’ and ‘he didn’t believe in dropping off junk’.

I know exactly why he said those things; repeated those things.

This is one of the ways humans cope with loss. We focus on a set of words or ideas that we repeat to ourselves and others, so that we have something to hold on to. These phrases help to solidify our identity, or prove to the person who died that we are coping.

I think of these internal statements as ‘I’m the type of person who…’ statements. For most of my life I’ve had dozens of them. Declarations about my personality, my preferences, my way of interacting with the world.

But over the last few months, I’ve lost touch with those declarative statements about who I am. I remember that I used to have them. The ones I remember don’t really feel like me anymore. 

I will say this – I was the type of person who… thought by mid-life I’d have a bunch of things figured out. All the wisdom I collected throughout my life would be packed neatly in my metaphorical backpack to carry and utilize through my retirement years.

Yet, here I am. More clueless than ever. And I can’t remember where I left my backpack.

From my Thought Diary: July 11, 2025