Today I Sold His Books

Today I went to the used bookstore and gave them a box of books. They had been mine, mainly theology books from my seminary days. My oldest son went to the same seminary, so the last time he visited I gave him some of mine, and let him choose the ones he wanted. The books were cumbersome, so I kept them stored in a box with his name on it for the next time we would meet. 

That was a while ago. I don’t even remember the date. 

Two years ago, my eldest child decided his life is better without me in it. So, he asked me not to contact him again. 

But I kept the books. His books that had been mine that seemed to be mine again. I had moved them multiple times, each time hoping maybe he’d decide to reach out to me again in some way. 

He never has. 

I send birthday and holiday cards, but I don’t know if they even go to the right address anymore. Don’t know if they are opened, or simply discarded upon arrival. 

Silence is all that comes back. 

Not wanting to trivialize the pain of others in worse situations than I am, I have to admit that it feels like a death. Like I’ve lost my son. Which I guess is what happened, except that I can still have hope to re-connect. 

But the books had to go. He wouldn’t want them—they are a part of me. I don’t want them because they remind me of what I cannot share with him. 

I surely bear blame for this rending. Of course I am deeply aware that I have hurt/disappointed/neglected him in some way. I can’t blame him for rejecting me, or, as he might think about it, “separating himself from a toxic family member.” I don’t even know that that means. 

I know exactly what that means. 

My son has removed himself from all connection with me. 

There are no cards, or texts, or calls. And now there are no books. But I will not give up on him. Hope—hope that he will allow a sliver of connection again—springs eternal. I am still his dad. And love that he is my son.