It was the closet

Shot through the heart.

In grief group they are called ambushes. I don’t really like that word, but I guess it fits. I think of them as a shot through the heart because that’s where it hurts. And man, it hurts.

Today my son needed a t-shirt, because he didn’t tell me he was out of clean ones, and so I went to get him one of his dad’s. All of his clothes is still in our closet, exactly as he left them; mine hanging on the left, his on the right. I spread them apart where they meet on the clothes rod and the first shirt of his that faced me was his favorite camping t-shirt. It wasn’t dusty. It wasn’t saggy. It looked like it just came out of the laundry and was holding Howie’s shape. I could vividly picture him in it. His muscular chest, tan arms, and beautiful face. Ow! Right in the heart. Damn that hurt! Suddenly the tears were there but I held them in. I looked around at all of his stuff. It’s all waiting because he will be back in just a second to wear them, right? 

F*ck, it's almost been a YEAR...

Up until now his clothes, his things, have all been “white noise.” I see them but I’m not thinking about them. They are part of the scenery. Like when you drive on autopilot. You got from A to B but you don’t remember anything specific from along the way. But suddenly today that shirt, his clothes, were hurting me. Why? Is it because the first marking of his death is coming? It is time to get rid of, or at least pack up, his clothes? But how could I?

Another widowed friend, 4 years out, (geez, I know a lot of widows all of the sudden!) told me that she has kept her husband’s office the same as how he left it. She said she didn’t want to erase him. He LIVED after all; he made a mark on people’s lives. I agree with and love that sentiment.

So, like I always do, I look at his picture and the urn on my headboard and ask what to do. And ask for strength. And tell him that I miss him. And I love him.

Being a widow sucks.