I turned the key in the lock of unit 214 and rolled up the door, my heart pounding, and the light fell on shelves of wrapped presents, hundreds of them, in bright paper and ribbons, each with a tag, filling the whole unit like the back room of Santas workshop.
I stepped inside and read the nearest tag, and my knees went soft. It said: Emma, 18th birthday. Love, Grandpa.
My husband had bought and wrapped a birthday and Christmas gift for every grandchild for every year into the future, as far ahead as he could manage, dozens and dozens of presents, so that even after he was gone, a gift from Grandpa would appear on every special day for years to come.
There were gifts tagged for birthdays not yet arrived, for graduations years away, for one grandsons wedding whenever it might come. He had thought of each child, each milestone, and chosen something, and wrapped it, and labeled it, and stored it here, a decade of love prepared in advance.
The note on the workbench read: Ruthie, my heart is not going to last as long as these babies need their grandpa. So I did the only thing I could. I got ahead of it. There is a gift here for every child, every year, for a good while yet. Hand them out for me. Let them keep getting presents from their grandpa long after I am gone. I did not want to miss a single birthday, love, even from where I am going.
The almost always he came with. His helper, the tags in a second handwriting gave it away, was our grandson, the oldest, who had helped his grandpa shop and wrap in secret, keeping the tears out of his voice, keeping the promise.
I sat among all those wrapped gifts and cried for the grandfather who refused to let death stop him from giving.
I have been handing them out ever since. Every birthday, every Christmas, a present appears from Grandpa, and the little ones light up, and the older ones cry, and every one of them knows their grandfather loved them enough to plan their joy years in advance.
There are gifts in that unit that will not be opened for years yet. I will hand out every one. And when the last is given, my husband will have kept giving to these children for longer after his death than some grandfathers manage in life.
The storage unit held no secret to grieve. It held a decade of a grandfathers love, wrapped and waiting. Sixty-seven dollars a month, so no grandchild would ever have a birthday without him. He could not stay. So he made sure he would never really be gone.