It’s a little after 3:00 in the morning and I’m lying in this cold and empty bed alone. I can’t sleep.
After you passed, I thought I wanted to stay here in this house. I was convinced that it was home, that it was where I was supposed to be. It was the place that I wanted to bring Mason to because this is where you and I dreamed of raising our family. Little by little, as the time has passed, I’ve realized this house is not my home – YOU were my home. This is where WE were supposed to raise Mason TOGETHER. Without you, this is just like any other building.
You and I had so many conversations about so many different things over the years. We talked about what we wanted for each other should something ever happen to one of us. You always said you wanted me to live my life, to find my way to happiness again. For a while I was torn because we never talked about what we would do with this house. Stay in it forever? Sell it? Rent it out? Until one day recently when I had a huge “aha” moment- I guess you were there whispering some common sense into my ear, as you always did. I realized you would have wanted me to do whatever was easiest and felt right for me and for our son.
I can’t do it anymore. I can’t continue to turn the key and be reminded of the first time we opened that front door after we closed on the house, or how frustrated you got installing those fancy new locks after we had it painted. I can’t walk in every night and look up and see that picture of us in front of the firetruck on our wedding day and remember how you surprised me and rang the doorbell and I opened to find you holding that huge frame that you couldn’t believe you spent so much money on. I can’t sit alone on the couch that you loved so much – the one I would often find you and Charlie napping on when I would come home from work on your days off (even though you were so adamant about “Charlie not being allowed on the furniture”). I can’t climb those stairs every day, lined with all the pictures of us on our wedding day with our families and closest friends, our faces painted with smiles filled with hope for a future that was taken from us. I can’t continue to get in this bed every night and be reminded of your final words to me the last time I saw you conscious – “I miss our bed”. I just can’t anymore.
As much as it hurts to say, the life you and I shared in this house is no more. You will live in my heart forever, but staying here will never change the fact that you are gone from this earth. Yes, packing up and leaving will be difficult, but nothing compared to what I’ve already lived through. I’ve finally realized this is another huge step necessary for moving forward. Sometimes, when it’s really quiet and I close my eyes, I can almost feel you nudging me and hear you telling me to keep going. I’m listening. I’m ready.