Rod's Name

After almost 20 months, he still gets mail. It's not important stuff, but enough to set me back every time I pick up the mail. Cabela's and Sweetwater Music are just a couple. The trash bill still carries his name after multiple requests to change the account. Many junk mail outlets have gleaned his name from who knows what lists. I can't possibly contact all of them. What am I supposed to do with this stuff several times a week? This is the kind of grief detail that people rarely hear about. I don't want his name and our address in the recycling bin so I tear the labels off before throwing it in there. But, then his name stares at me from the counter. Before I throw the remaining label pieces away I tear them up and doing this several times a week is sadly exhausting. It just seems wrong to tear up his name, but letting it pile up on the counter would be crazy.

Two weeks ago I made a home visit with a newly grieving widow. When she looked at my business card she asked the question I've heard for decades, "Castro? What kind of name is that?" Overlooking her obviously racist tone I explained, "Oh, it's Spanish. In the 1700's my husband's family received California land grants from the King of Spain. In fact, they owned much of the Monterey coast." She backed off.

Last week I met some friends after work at a restaurant near the University of Oregon. One of them was trying to remember the name of a small brewery north of Eugene. She asked, "What's the name of that place you went to with so and so when your husband was still alive?" Really? I was dumbfounded. First, of course we went when Rod was still alive. Second, she could have used his name. Third, there was no need to remind me that I was the only widow in our small group of seven.

Less than a week ago I pulled together Mom's tax material to send to her accountant in Montana. I went to my desk to get a 9x12 envelope and randomly pulled one from the middle of the stack. That was it. I was taken out. In Rod's handwriting, the return address started with Rev. Rod Castro and continued with our/my current address. He obviously changed his mind about using it and put it back in the drawer. What was I supposed to do with it? In no way could I tear it up like the junk mail labels. It's in his hand. I couldn't put it back in the drawer, either. With conflicting emotions of dread and courage, I stuck it on my studio bulletin board. It graphically reminds me, in his own hand, that he was here. His name is good. He was very much alive and had plans for the future.

Rod's name. It's precious to me and 20 months into this I struggle greatly when it's trivialized by junk mail and insensitive comments. I thrive, though, when I hear it in loving conversations, "How did Rod serve communion?" "I remember when you and Rod did......"  "Rod would have..."

Yes, the names of the dead are precious and holy. Those who remain on this side of eternity need to hear them in this frame, in this space.