I wrote this August 9 2008. In a spasm of motivation I spent a weekend clearing out the basement, junk room and closets. Three truckloads of stuff taken to the Thrift Store, dump and Habitat for Humanity. Two days later I put the house on the market. I had been avoiding all of this because of what it all means. The end. With the help of my loyal cats, loud music and copious amounts of Diet Pepsi, I was able to get through it, and it feels good. Felt good. Now, 4 weeks later the adrenalin-induced euphoria is fading and I am back to questioning and vacillating. This I wrote for my husband, who will likely never read it, as I have no way of contacting him.

Tonight I got rid of all your stuff. Flashes of memories hit me as I went through your belongings…linen pants--trip to California; rain pants--bought for your new job; bow tie in your family tartan from our wedding; t-shirt from when we volunteered during the wildfire evacuations; the shirts you wore all the time; your gardening shoes; your bathrobe, that hung on the hook in our bathroom for 6 years. And worse, the gifts—the shirt my mom brought you from Alaska; the t shirt I made for you that first year, with photos of the cats on it, now faded almost beyond recognition; all the things I bought you. All quickly tossed in black plastic garbage bags, to be taken away by the thrift store next week. Others will wear our memories.

How could you leave me to do this? No one should ever have to dispose of memories this way. No one should be forced to throw away the gifts lovingly given over the years by a faithful, optimistic wife. From a family that accepted you as their own, to whom you never even said goodbye. Eight months since I’ve heard your voice. Do you know how much of me you took with you that day?

But, it’s done. A dozen black bags, the remnants of you. Making space for me.