Unexpected Reminders of Loss

I’ve come to realize that aging often brings with it unpredictable reminders of loss. Sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, a memory will resurface that can overwhelm us, breaking through the emotional defenses that have been carefully constructed over years of managing difficult feelings. These defenses—what I think of as the “mattresses of protection,” a phrase borrowed from my favorite movie, The Godfather—are meant to shield us from sorrow, but occasionally the sadness beneath seeps through.

A Routine Trip to Costco

I recently entered Costco with a straightforward mission: to purchase paper towels. Growing up, we never used them; instead, we relied on cotton kitchen towels for all those various kitchen needs. But today, paper towels have become indispensable, nearly as essential as toilet paper—a product that became even more valuable during the COVID pandemic. I was fully aware that retailers place high-demand items, like the $4.99 rotisserie chickens, at the very back of the store to encourage shoppers to make additional purchases on their way through. Despite this awareness, I was still unable to avoid the strategy and ended up spending a total of $175.

The Lemon Tree Encounter

As I walked in, ignoring the tempting bulk-priced items to the left, I found myself drawn toward the pallets of garden products. There, on my right, was a display of lemon trees. The trees were heavy with plump, golden lemons, their fragrance cutting through the otherwise stale air of the warehouse. The sight and scent hit me unexpectedly, and I felt an emotional reaction rise of tears threatening, but I refused to let them fall. The memory of searching for the perfect lemon tree to plant in the backyard of my long-lost home swept over me, filling me with a profound sense of longing and loss.

Memory and Acceptance

I stood motionless, able only to gently touch a branch weighed down by the brilliant fruit. Holding it softly in my right palm, I was mesmerized by its beauty, and for a moment, I imagined it growing in the backyard of my memory. Determined not to give in to the tears I felt swelling, I reminded myself of my present reality: I am now an older woman living in a small one-bedroom apartment in a city far removed from the one in my memory, though thankfully near my son. I told myself to move on, to continue toward the paper towel section at the back of the store. Though I did not allow the tears to fall, their presence was there—a silent unexpected acknowledgment of loss. I gathered myself, reclaiming my public façade, and walked on.