There’s not as much as I remember. Less boxes and less in them
I must have thrown more away than I can remember. Damned widow brain, so forgetful.
Our things, now my things I guess, have been in storage for six months while I was “homeless”; let’s call it, mobile. A few bits of furniture, our personal effects, his clothes, all his medals and memorabilia, my beloved painting, the rug we bought with money we received for our engagement…
Just stuff. Some of it brings comfort. Some of it brings pain. Some boxes I won’t be opening for a while. They can wait. In the back of a cupboard. Out of sight. Until I’m ready.
But it’s just stuff. Hell, most of it was second hand or free for heavens sake!
Our paltry collection of stuff. It means nothing, it’s worth nothing. I don’t need any of it. When we’re dead, its inanimate, silent presence becomes so irritating.
I should be unpacking these with him… Making a new home with him. No, don’t be silly thinking like that!
I’m still lucky. I’m still grateful. Have courage, keep going, make a fresh start. You can do it.
I stick a few favourite photos on the fridge. A homemade valentines card that I loved (and still love!), which he loved giving to me and watching me open. That grin. Those sparkly blues. Eagerly watching for my smile.
Just stuff indeed. Nothing of ‘him’ left. Such a painful abyss.
Ironically some of this stuff is so precious now, I can’t help but cling to it. And feel foolish, but comforted by it.