It's funny how different steps of a project can affect you differently. I've been re-finishing a couple of pieces of furniture that were among the very few items left for us when my brother's girlfriend moved out of his house at the beginning of June. (Yes, my parents paid the house payment, so her son could finish out the school year. Yes, they had a legal piece of paper that said we got his belongings. I don't even want to go there).
Anyway, the two pieces that I have were originally my grandmother's. Then, they were mine. I ended up trading them back to my grandmother when she gave me a different set. Eventually, they ended up being my brother's, and now they're mine again. So. . . they're pretty special, and. . . I think I'm the only person who has owned them who is still alive--unless my mom had them at one point in time.
This furniture dates back as long as I can remember! I know that my grandmother had it when I was a little girl in Michigan, so it's probably around forty years old! It was good, solid furniture. Now, there's a drawer front that's missing. There were huge cuts in one of the pieces, and the paint had bubbled up, so it had to be re-done.
I sanded for two days. While I was sanding, I felt great. I'm not sure why. Maybe I felt like I was taking the ugliness of life and scraping it away and making it beautiful again. I'm not quite sure. I guess I felt that I was repairing my brother's life or my brokenness now that he's gone. I'm quite sure the sanding was therapeutic.
Then came removing the dust. Well, since I wanted to make sure that there was no sawdust left on the pieces, I got a bucket of water and a rag, and I "washed" the sawdust off. I guess I had more time to think since I wasn't using a power tool. Cleaning the pieces was devastating. Again, I'm not sure why. I really think a lot of it was having more time to think. You see, I was thinking about if those pieces could talk. Oh, the things they could tell. So many memories of my grandmother. Then I realized that these pieces were in the room the night my brother shot himself. How I wish they could tell me the missing pieces that would help us understand how this could have happened!
Painting the pieces has been kind of neutral. I've got to clear-coat the first piece one more time (maybe two), but that piece is almost finished. It looks good. I've painted the body the original color, but I've painted the drawers a new color. It is kind of a teal green. All three of us kids have grown up to love the same favorite color: green. I think I chose it because I like it, but I'm glad that I chose it because he would too. I think Granny would have too. I'm glad that I kept the original color for part of it. I almost didn't.
The refinishing is not perfect, but I'm not sure I would want it to be. Because life is not perfect, and I'm not okay. I don't say that to try to make you feel sorry for me. I say it because it's the truth, and it does no good to deny it. My brother is dead, and I'm not okay. I doubt I ever will be again. But I will go on because there are other people out there who are not okay, and they need to know they're not the only ones.
No, I'm not okay, but I'm okay with that.
