Carrying pieces of him...



Moving day is fast approaching.

This time it's different.  We have been here much longer than any other home we've lived in.  We've had people come and go from this home, many times.  It's been unstable, but good for us as well.

More than anything I look forward to resting my head on my pillow each night and not worrying about burglars or gas stoves or 30 year old furnaces blowing up or someone breaking into my garage and stealing a box of my mom's crap, including our family photos, only to have them show up days later at my neighbours house. 

I'm not worried.

Instead I worry about things like space and happiness and stomping on the floor, and complaining neighbours, and laundry rooms, oh my gosh I've never done laundry in a laundry room before.  I also worry about weird neighbours, because I just can't say no to a crazy person and if a crazy person happens to live in that building they will most likely end up being my friend and ruining my life.

I also worry about leaving pieces behind.

It happens every time we move. Bit by bit pieces of him disappear.  I know I promised myself I would keep these things forever.  I promised so badly that I would keep them for our son, but I just can't carry them any longer.

I'm tired of opening up that small plain box each time we move and I am hit in the face with him.  The t-shirts he wore.  The last birthday cards he ever received.  The gift bag he got for his birthday.  His pants.

I have held on to these things for four years and eleven months now.  For what? I don't know.  I guess I hoped that one day our son would appreciate these items.

but they are just things.

Things he wore that used to smell like him, but now just smell like the many different basements they have been stored in.  These things used to mean something, now they just bring back bad memories.  Memories of all the times I've failed at securing us a home, memories of each time I've opened the box and was reminded again of our life and memories of him, which for some reason are never initially good.

Why is it that all the bad memories come first and only when you are shoving your face into a pillow to smother your sobs so your son doesn't hear and gasping for air do you begin to remember the good.

I am taking this box back to his family.

I'm not trying to forget or deny what happened or what is happening.  It was real and it is real and I know that.  I just can't keep carrying these things.

My life is too full of things as it is.

Share this:

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hello..this is my blog. I bought this fancy theme and I don't know what to write here just yet. Maybe one day remind me I have to write something inspiring here?

0 comments:

Post a Comment