Our basement flooded Tuesday morning. The sump-pump died in the middle of the night and I woke up to a foot of water covering the concrete floor. Apprehensively, I walked down the cellar stairs until I reached to point where the water was lapping my bare feet and soaking the stair runners. Plastic crates and soda cans drifted slowly across the length of the basement, colliding with each other. "Shit," I said aloud softly as I nudged a stray Pepsi can with my foot.
Out of everything in the basement, the only thing I was concerned about was a box of my brother's remaining possessions: a few t-shirts, his artwork, and photographs that my father kept hidden in a plastic crate by the washer and dryer.
"Don't worry about it," Mom said when I expressed my concern. "It'll be fine- it's sealed up." Mom seemed more concerned with Regis and Kelly.
So, I tried not to worry about Tippy's stuff, but after half an hour it was still eating at me.
"Where are Dad's big boots?"
Mom looked over at me. "They're in the kitchen, but um, I don't think going downstairs is a good idea."
I didn't care. I needed to get the crate.
The boots were ugly-- black, rubber and almost knee high, but they did the job. I waded through the basement pushing debris out of my path. I found the box without much trouble. Everything was safe and I sighed with relief. I opened the box that was sitting next to it and found two photo albums which I threw in with Tippy's stuff. While I was sifting through other boxes, I heard Mom at the top of the stairs.
"Come upstairs before you electrocute yourself," she called.
I trudged back through the cold water and dragged the crate up the stairs.
"It would have been fine," Mom commented as she nursed a cup of coffee. I shrugged. "This is important," I replied and left it at that.
Along with some of Tippy's things, the box held every sympathy card my family received after the crash-- mass cards, cards with long notes, cards with only signed names, hand written letters. I grabbed a handful of cards from the box and began to read them. I had forgotten about the flood of cards we received. The best ones had thoughtful notes and stories about how wonderful my brother was written inside. Reading the cards on Tuesday morning brought me back seven years ago, but not in the traumatic way you'd think. It was really nice to remember how many people cared about my family and loved Tippy.
I read every single card. I looked at all the pictures. I read every saved newspaper clipping. I examined his Phish t-shirt which I secretly hoped would still smell like him after all these years (but it smelled like stale air and old paper).
Sometimes I miss him so much I can hardly stand it. My life has been so strange without him. Tippy's crate is invaluable- I didn't realize the extent until Tuesday. If the house was burning down I would rush to save that over anything else (well, not counting my family, duh.). The flood in the basement made me question what was truly important to me. It put things into perspective.
I wanted to share this realization.