Box one from my mother's house. Three Ukrainian blouses that she made. The one that is mine, I will try to give to Cheshire. I will never wear it. I don't think. The other two are for a child. I must have taken it for Julia. I really don't remember now. It was an easy box to dismantle and put away. Like I packed it to be.
Box two crammed full of bank statements, paid bills, insurance policies and receipts, and house buying and selling. None of it less than 5 years old. I went through it all, shredded and threw away with only a few things saved. I threw away many, many scraps of paper that David had written on. I cannot fathom saving every scrap. The man was a writer. But I am also acutely aware that there will be no more scraps made and I wonder how much I will miss that illegible scrawl and for how long. I've never been able to read it. There was a time when I had to ask him to read his own love letters to me. Could not make out the words. Another part of me is faced with the reality of his complete disappearance forever. Another few cells give him up.
Making room. Making room. So many years ago, I wrote that nature could not stand a vacuum and that I would wait. Quietly. It was after we had decided to give up the attempt to have a second child. Five years later, Julia became ours. The process of giving up, letting go, healing, and discovering took a very long time. Grieving was part of that time as well. But there was joy again after that time. And I wonder if there will be joy again.