And with an unexpected burst of energy, I opened the overflowing closet. I organized. I filed. I rummaged. I sorted.
My eyes fell on the big bulky bag I have been avoiding for weeks now and without thinking, I unzipped it.
And out you poured.
I tried to push the thoughts away and focus on the task at hand. I grabbed your favorite afghan--the one that covered your wooden rocking chair...the one that still has your smell and laid it gently on the back of our couch.
I grabbed the pitcher next--it's bright flowers singing songs of spring--and set it on our shelf.
The green glass bowl in the bedroom.
The serving tray tucked safely away.
And then the timer went off and I took dessert out of the oven and suddenly the tears were there. Not flooding. Not loud. Just a few swift, silent ones that I wiped away quietly.
And I dropped everything right then and snuggled into the couch with your blanket wrapped around me and you were there and I could hear you saying, "Well, honey, how nice!" as you popped in for a visit, followed quickly with "Now, Adam, how is teaching going? Any brats these days?" with a wink and a chuckle.
And I recalled the last time--the very last--I visited your home and he said, eyes red and words squeezing out from the lump in his throat, "So, just, you know, look around and let me know what you want and we'll figure it out." And it was horrible, it really was, to be in your space and look at your things and think I want nothing, I want everything, I just want you to come. home. And offer me ice cream and talk about Grandpa and I'll stay all afternoon. And I felt icky and just put a few things aside and thought exhausting thoughts--too much? not enough? I'm doing this all wrong...
And it isn't about those things, and it doesn't change anything, really, and I know you aren't in those things and are instead in your new home that I will one day visit, but for now, I have to say, it's really nice to see you everywhere I turn.
Our birthday month is coming up soon, and I know that I won't be getting that signature $2 bill in the mail (isn't it funny, the things we miss?) or do our birthday lunch.
But as I go about my day to day, I'll think of you.
And when I'm feeling sentimental, I'll reach for the blanket and hear you say as I wrap myself tight, "Now, honey, don't you keep crying over me. Dyin's just a part of livin."