Grieving Lost Objects: The Copper Kettle

Jessie Haviland lives in Baltimore, MD with her husband, cat and two dogs. She’s a lover of secondhand shopping, former professional musician and creative arts therapist, and competitive karaoke champion. She is pursuing her MSW at University of Maryland, Baltimore and wildly grateful to be interning with What’s Your Grief.

When I was 10 years old, my maternal grandpa died. It was a traumatic death that shifted my entire family dynamic. He went in for a minor surgery and never came out. There was some kind of mistake; we never really knew the full story.

We did know our trust in the medical system would never be the same. We lost the beloved caring, gentle, smart, patriarch of our family and it felt like my childhood ended right then…a precious time in my life where I’d garden with my grandpa. We would walk around his tiny New York City yard as he tended to his herbs and plants, and I would water them with my favorite object he’d passed down to me: a vintage copper kettle I used as a watering can.

I had been using that kettle to water plants since I was three or four, following him and dousing the basil, my uncoordinated little hands always pouring too much. Gardening had always been our special time together, just us. It felt sacred. He’d pluck herbs off the stem while I collected snails and clutched my kettle, wandering and watering whichever plants he told me to. For years he had been promising to polish it for me and restore it to its original beauty. He finally got around to it, right before his untimely, unexpected death. I’d never get to see it in its polished state.

As the weeks following his death passed, I started asking my mom about the kettle. She was grieving an unimaginable loss and all I wanted was my silly watering can. It was my 10-year-old brain’s way of trying to feel my grandpa’s presence again. To connect with him.

My mom, understandably, didn’t have the bandwidth to prioritize helping me look for it at that time. Looking back, I’m embarrassed I even burdened her with it, but I couldn’t comprehend it at the time since I was just a kid. Not only did my mom lose her person, but she was also taking care of her mother who’d had a heart attack upon learning her beloved husband died from a medical mistake, in addition to seeing clients as a fulltime social worker. I don’t even know if she was able to take care of herself, let alone look for my kettle. 

As time passed, that gnawing feeling grew stronger - I wanted, no, needed, my kettle. It was mine and my grandpa’s relationship in the physical manifestation of a single object. Months went by, then a year. I was unrelenting as we searched my grandparent’s house over again, always hopeful. It was nowhere to be found.

My mom said that she thinks she had given it away to someone in the heavy haze of her grief. It felt like a gut-punch. I understood that my mom was experiencing the worst loss of her life, but in that moment, it felt like I could never forgive her. I had many objects my grandpa had given me - toys, books, his suspenders or shirts I’d try on to look silly- but that kettle was the only thing I cared about.

My grandpa’s death was also my first significant loss – we were incredibly close, since my grandparents helped raise me. I had lost my person, too. I felt like that kettle was the one thing really connecting me to my grandpa and it was gone, like him. Loss compounded on loss.

At the time, I harbored resentment towards my mom over her mistake. I knew, logically, that it was really, truly a mistake; but emotionally, it was hard to forgive her. It was, and wasn’t, her fault – she’d given it away but didn’t know its significance. I know she’d felt guilt about it. I didn’t want her to hurt anymore and yet, I wanted her to be punished in some small way for what she had done. I’ve been able to let go of that resentment, but it took time.

It’s been almost 28 years since I last saw my grandpa and my kettle. Very few days pass where I don’t think of him. I always remember him as gently tending to his garden, me by his side. I’d never really garden again after the age of 10. While my friends plant beautiful flowers and vegetables, I tense up at the prospect of doing the same in my front yard. I always tell people “I don’t have a green thumb” or “it’s just not for me,” but I now know why I despise, or rather can’t bring myself to garden. Maybe one day.

About two years ago, I got my kettle tattooed on my leg with my grandparent’s initials and a spring of basil in between. A little piece of his garden is always with me. A little piece of him is always with me. It was a therapeutic experience and every day I get to look down and see my kettle. I finally got it back.

Are you grieving lost objects?

Objects can often be the physical connection we have to our loved-one who has died. It’s normal to grieve an object as an extension of this grief. It’s another lost connection we have to that person, when they may already be few and far between. If you’ve experienced the loss of a precious grief object, what are some ways that you can re-connect to it?

• Is there a way to create art around the object? Or commission someone else to? Is there a picture of it you can frame and display?
• Would you want to permanently commemorate it with a tattoo? (I’m clearly biased!)
• Treasure hunting: can you find a similar object? Sometimes there can be joy in the hunt alone. While nothing will replace the original object, there might be some comfort found in an object similar to the one lost
• Are there activities related to the lost object to honor it? In my case, I’ve been caring for an indoor basil plant. Other examples: if it was a tennis racquet, could you play a match to honor that person? If it was a musical instrument, could you listen to that person’s favorite music or take lessons? If it was a vintage piece of jewelry, could you take a jewelry-making class or browse antique shops and pick our something your loved-one would have worn?

An update to my story...

For years, without my knowledge, my mom has been passively looking online for a similar copper kettle. Once I shared a draft of this essay with her, she started searching more actively. A few weeks ago, I received a mysterious package in the mail; after a rigorous search, she had found almost the exact kettle on Etsy and had it shipped to me a surprise. When I opened it, I sobbed uncontrollably. It felt like I had that connection back again. After 28 years, it felt like my grandpa had finally come home.