With a Handful of the Crumpled Dark

I spent the majority of today missing Kellie so, so much. I’m not saying I was sad, because it didn’t feel like sadness. Just like an acute awareness of her absence, like a big hole somewhere at the core of me.

I looked at some very old photos today. I was originally planning to send a bunch to a service that will scan them for me, but scrapped that plan for now when I realized that they literally charge $1.00 per scanned photo—even with this 50% off coupon code, the thousand pictures that will fit in this box would cost me $500. And that’s ridiculous for scanning a photo.

I know that she’s gone. I know that she isn’t coming back, and yet I feel so much guilt about donating any of her things. That’s something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about over these past nine weeks. Some widow/ers are never able to bring themselves to cleaning and organizing stuff after their loss. Some do it immediately after the death, before the funeral even happens.

There are lots of motivations for both choices. I see the argument for leaving everything as-is, and I also see the argument for clearing out some of the ever-present reminders of her.

In my case, there have been things I have a very strong emotional connection to. I don’t know that I’m every going to want to give away or otherwise dispose of any of those things. There are also things I have zero connection to, and which category they fall into appears to be almost random. Blankets? Can’t get rid of any. Towels? Burn every one, and I’ll be fine (except for after a shower, I guess).

But the idea of not cleaning anything up feels problematic to me, like living in a museum to Kellie. I think that it would be far worse for me, somehow, to leave all of her things as-is and watch them gather dust. I do need to live here, and so that means doing some de-cluttering. There were also things that Kellie had a real connection to and I didn’t (like these little witch bird dolls which I found out were from Wicked once a friend’s daughter commented on). Yes, I gave the friend’s kid the dolls. No, I don’t need the witch birds.

It also makes me feel happy to walk into a room and see it less cluttered. And then I have a day like today, and feel really guilty for getting rid of some of her socks, since she’s going to need those socks. No, I know she isn’t going to need the socks, and yes, her feet were way smaller than mine, so I don’t need them either. In case you were wondering, I had no emotional connection to her socks.

So I looked through some of her things and then had the most acute sense of her absence for a really long time. I just can’t articulate enough how much this woman meant—means—to me. Her not being here is harder than I could ever imagined (and I imagined that it would hypothetically be incredibly difficult).

Every. Single. Part. Of. My. Life. Has. Changed.

I would love to text twenty or thirty people and say “I miss Kellie so much.” But I didn’t, because what are you going to say back to me? “Yeah, me too”? “I know you do”? Or maybe “What am I supposed to do about that, Matt”?

Well, no—honestly, I did tell one person. And she gave me the perfect response, so maybe I should trust that other people will come up with something that might help in the future as well.

My friend said that she was sorry, and that even though nothing is going to be sufficient in filling that hole in my heart, the little things that make me feel good are important and good to keep in mind, since they might make it a tiny bit easier. And she was right.

Here was what ultimately made tonight bearable for me. I’ve never seen this picture before now, and it is now one of my favorites of the two of us from twenty-ish years ago. I cannot adequately articulate how seeing this photo makes me feel, except to say that I remember taking it. I remember where we were (a music festival in Ontario) and I remember what I was feeling—I was so, so in love. We both were. That comes across in the picture, and it’s what has helped me get through the last hour or two.

I think that’s all I need to say this evening. I’m just going to look at this picture some more, and remember what that day was like.

Sleep tight,

Matt