A Time for Letting Go

By Helen Adams

It was long past time the room was cleaned up, the contents stored away into trunks, given away to people who could make use of them, or in the case of the more worn items; thrown out.

Hop Sing had offered to do this chore, for as hard as it was on him, he had known that it would be doubly so for the others. Ben and Joe had both refused the offer unconditionally, nowhere near ready to let go; to see the trappings and collections - big and small, important and minimal - desecrated by the march of time. They had lost Hoss in late March, when the first little buds and sprouts were sticking their heads up and remind the world that it was new again. Winter had begun to stroke her chilly fingers over the landscape once again before they finally agreed that the time had come.

By design, they had chosen to begin the chore at a time when Ben’s adopted son, Jamie, was away at school. He would have helped, without protest or question, but this task somehow felt too private for anyone not bound to Hoss Cartwright by blood.

At first, it seemed impossible. Ben and Joe stared around the room, feeling the loss of their beloved son and brother crashing over them as painfully as if it were new, not knowing where to begin.

“Somehow, I thought it would be easier after all this time,” Joe choked out, “but it’s not. Somehow I walk in here and I expect him to be snoring away in that bed or sitting by the window whittling on something. I can almost hear his voice, Pa.”

“I feel that way every time,” Ben agreed gently. “I’ve been here many times in the past year, any time I felt in need of calm or just required a dose of your brother’s unique brand of wisdom. If I just sat here long enough, his presence seemed to offer answers to whatever troubled me. I suppose that’s part of the reason I’ve been so reluctant to allow this room to change.”

Joe took a deep breath. “Are you sure we should?”

Ben gripped him lightly by the shoulder. “It’s time, son. We can’t keep things the way they were forever, no matter how much we might wish to.”

Ben moved to the dresser and began unloading the huge checked nightshirts, smoothing each one into wrinkle-free perfection before setting it in an empty trunk. These and the rest of the clothing, more or less all in the same colors and patterns, were to be given to Hop Sing for disposal, either for rags or recycled garments. They simply wouldn’t fit anyone else in their present condition.

The collection of little whistles, toys and other wooden gewgaws that Hoss had forever been working on, Joe took charge of, setting the finished pieces aside for transport to the orphan’s home, along with an assortment of pretties and playthings that Hoss had picked up in different places and kept since his own childhood.

They conducted the task silently, neither man able to make light conversation as they worked.

Slowly, inch by inch, the room changed. The walls and surfaces were stripped bare, the drawers and trunks were emptied completely, the surfaces dusted and polished. Within two hours, it was simply a room filled with sturdy furniture and an extra-large bed which could have been meant for anyone.

Ben studied the bare space grimly, blunt fingers clenched around the wooden object in his hands; a pretty carved box which held some particularly precious mementos that he had been unable to part with. These would be removed to his own room as soon as they were finished.

With a sad expression, Joe placed one final item in his own small treasure-box, one which Hoss had carved for him on the occasion of his tenth birthday, and closed the lid. His fingers fumbled the tiny silver key which locked the box. The key sprang away under the bed. Grumbling incoherently, Joe dropped to one knee and lowered his head to the floor, searching for the small object. When he saw it, his breath caught. For beside the key, nearly lost in the darkness under the mattress, was a pair of old worn-out boots.

Sitting on the carpet, Joe drew them out and settled them in his lap, unable to do anything but hold the boots and stare as a wayward tear tracked down his face.

Seeing his expression, Ben came closer and sat down on the bed. He reached out but did not try to take the boots, as Joe had expected. Instead, he stroked a trembling hand through Joe’s thick graying curls, just the way he had done long ago when those curls were a dark lustrous brown and the head which held them had barely reached the top of the tall bed when standing at full height. “Tell me,” he said softly.

Tracing his fingertips over a crack in the worn, once-black leather, Joe said, “He’d been saying for months that he meant to buy a new pair of boots. Somehow he kept starting out to do it, then getting distracted before he made it over to the boot-maker’s shop. I’d finally had enough of listening to him, so I waited until the day he was going to Clark and Millie Davis’ wedding, knowing he’d be wearing his best suit and dress boots all day, then I swiped these things and took ‘em into town. I let Mr. Gunderson rip ‘em apart to get the measure, then he stitched these back together pretty as you please so Hoss would never know a thing about it.” More tears slid down his cheeks. “I tossed these boots under his bed where he’d left them. Gunderson was supposed to have the new boots done by week’s end, and I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“He would have loved knowing you did that for him,” Ben told him sincerely. Hoss had been on his way home from that wedding when he’d been caught in a freak storm. His horse had been spooked by a lightning strike and thrown him. Hoss had been knocked unconscious, but had not died from the blow to his head. It had been the pneumonia he’d contracted after lying out in the cold and wet for most of the night. “Those new boots would have become his favorite pair until they wore out and fell apart as badly as these have.”

Joe swallowed, dashing impatiently at the tears. “I suppose they would have,” he agreed, a smile lightening his features. “I think . . . if you don’t mind, Pa. I think I’d like to hang on to these.”

Ben nodded. “I’m sure Hoss would approve.” Clapping him briskly on the back, he added, “Now, I don’t know about you but I’ve worked up an appetite. What do you say we finish up in here and go convince Hop Sing to fix us a snack before supper?”

“I think Hoss would have approved of that too,” Joe said with a laugh, which his father joined in heartily.

“I’m sure he would, Joseph. I’m sure he would.”

The End