Saying goodbye ~ July 20, 1989

David Heiller

The small black suitcase lay before me on the bed, and I hesitated before opening it. The suitcase stays in the top dresser drawer in my old bedroom, but I had never opened it before. And now, I hesitated just a second before lifting the two metal clasps, like you hesitate before lifting the phone receiver to call a friend you haven’t seen in a long, long time, not knowing who’ll answer.

Inside the black vinyl case, two bright scarves lay on top, and two hand-made pot holders, and a ceramic wall hanging, carefully painted but with colors running into each other, the yellow banana flowing onto the green foliage. Some construction paper posters were carefully folded, along with two hot pads, and a Girl Scout sash with 16 merit badges from Troop 93, Peace Pipe Council.

David and Lynette with Grandma Schnick.

I touched these things carefully, seeing for what seemed like the first time in 20 years, the smiling girl who had made them and worn them, my sister, Lynette.

Letters filled the rest of the suitcase, some still in envelopes with four cent stamps, some lying loose, scrawled in pencil. I hadn’t seen that writing for so long, the careful printing that didn’t quite stay on the line, like the ceramic colors that didn’t quite stay on their mark. I could see the toes as they gripped the stubby pencil so tightly, see the short strokes stab the paper slowly, carefully.

You know these pink slacks you made me, well their too baggy, Lynette wrote on April 29, 1968. Why can’t I get a dress for Kathy’s wedding? Everyone else is.

In a letter from Worthington Crippled Children’s School on February 20, 1966, Lynette told Mom: I will send you a copy of the paper we wrote. Boy, will you be surprised what I wrote. I miss you all, even Glenn and Sharon (the cats too).

A letter from the University’ of Minnesota Hospital on March 16, 1965, said to Mom: I hope I can go home Friday. Will you make Kathy come with you. I wanta see so bad, and she is my best sister (don’t let the girls read this or they’ll be mad at me). Glenn came Saturday night. Love to all, Lynette.

David and Lyn at Christmas

A letter from Kathy that same year lay next to this letter. I hope now that you are feeling better and can get around more, Kathy wrote. After an operation, no one feels like doing anything. Boy I bet you sure had fun when you were home, didn’t you? I suppose everyone was so glad to see you.

There was a letter from Mary Ellen to Lynette at the hospital, with a card and a kiss drawn in red taped to the page. I’ll send you a piece of gum, Mary wrote. I hope they let you chew it. I know how you love it!

There was a check-off list of things to take to Camp Courage, where Lynette loved to go every summer. Lynette had crossed “playsuits” off the list and written in “pant dresses,” more befitting to a teenager.

There were letters from Lynette when she was at Camp Courage too. Today is windy, she wrote from camp on June 23, 1964. Janet is always making me laugh. Did you get my radio fixed yet?

Two little autograph books in the suitcase had messages written to Lynette from Camp friends. One message read:

You’ve been a great camper,

Even in the heat.

But I’m still jealous

I can’t write with my feet!

Love, Margaret.

Other messages were more somber. A girl named Mary Beth wrote: You’re really the best roommate a camper could ever hope for. I’m going to miss you when you have to go on your own way and I on mine. I just hope you never forget me.

Grandma Schnick had some practical advice in the autograph book. She wrote: I just can’t think of any verse to write so will just say how very proud I am of the way you are improving and know you will keep right on. Love, Grandma

Finally there was a message from Mom: Lynette: I hope you never forget how to laugh. Love, Mother.

Laughter. Mom knew her daughter better than anyone, and in one sentence had touched Lynette’s shining star, her laughter.

Amidst all the letters was a folded piece of scratch paper. Mom’s familiar handwriting stood out on the clean side:

I knew the time had come to put away

The things you’d never use nor see again.

“Be calm, detached,” I said to me.

“These are but things.” 
But oh, they were so dear, For they had known your touch.

And in your purse I found a little mirror.

Long I gazed into its depth,

Hoping for a reflection of your smile

Captured there.

But all I saw was my own brimming eyes

And I knew the searching was in vain

And you were gone.

I closed the suitcase, just as my mother must have. Cindy lay beside me. I put my head on her chest, and cried, feeling the sheet turn wet beneath my face. I cried like never before, never since July 21, 1969, at Lynette’s funeral, three days after she had drowned at Camp Courage.

It wasn’t that long ago, 20 years, and I haven’t forgotten her, but somehow, I had never said goodbye, until now.