I’m going through boxes of stuff in my room, trying to purge, get rid of stuff, make less stuff that I have to move to the next place.
I find our vows that we wrote to each other. Crap. I shouldn’t read them, but it’s too late. I go ahead and just have my cry. I was trying to just get my closet done, dammit.
17 pairs of pants. I had kept that many that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to ever see again or not. If it would remind me of him in a good way or a bad way. Remember when we went to the stock show and I had on that pair of jeans? Remember how you would always tell me how good I looked in that particular pair? Remember the morning that you were actually awake and I had on my tall boots and my black and white striped shirt and you started singing to me “Yo,ho, yo, ho, a pirate’s life for me.” They’re just clothes. But it’s emotionally charged.
I slog through it.
I just steeled myself for 45 minutes in the basement. That’s where all his stuff is. Some of it needs to be re-packed for storage in the new place. Some of it wasn’t packed right the first time. Fly boxes. His clothes. Three large rubbermades full of corvette matchbox cars. What am I supposed to do with this stuff? I want him. I want him to walk in and help me. I want him to hold me and tell me that he’s sorry that I’ve had to deal with this up to now but he’s here now and he’ll handle it from here on out.
Then I have the thought that it’s been over a year and a half since I’ve seen him. Would he even know me now?
And then the old thought returns. How did I get here?
Sometimes, even after a year and a half, I still can’t get my head around it that this is my life. It just isn’t right that he’s not here with me.