I’m done going through all the drawers and closets, shoes and jewelry, binders and loose papers. All the stuff I want to keep will be packed into 3 boxes, everything else is waiting to be taken or carted away to goodwill. Only her clothes remain. I don’t want to see the closet empty every time I go in there.

I feel… empty. Sad, sure, but not the terrible grief of the beginning. There’s an emptiness though. That a part is missing. Not just her. That missing feeing I know well. But her stuff in the apartment. The physical presence of her things.

I told others, and myself, that I have to have room to grow. We have to have room to grow, my kid and I. And this was a hard journey through her things, through memories. Yet I think it was easier now than it would’ve have been a year from now, when it would’ve reopened the wound. At least now I know it’s done with. Over. I don’t have to do this ever again.

And yet… a remarkable amount of things didn’t change. The kitchen is mostly the same. The living room. The kid’s room and play room. The home office / storage area. Bathrooms. Even our bedroom, with the exception her desk is now clear. Her things were mostly inside drawers and cabinets, behind closed doors inside binders.

That means that If I don’t think about it hard the place looks similar to before. Little changes, but nothing major. No gaping hole like there is in my heart.

In a sense I miss that activity. It was hard but it kept my connection to her. Now, without working on organizing her things anymore, that will dwindle as well. Yet another part of her dying off, disappearing.

I can’t believe three months ago we still texted, talked, watched tv, laughed and held each other. It feels like another lifetime.