Sunday, April 02, 2017
Cleaned up the back garden today. It's a small yard with just two strips of dirt on either side of a concrete slab. The terracotta tile stenciling is fading. I cut down the dead plants and sawed off the branches of the nuisance Rose of Sharon that is growing between the raised bed and the neighbors fence. I was getting annoyed trying to pull out the deep roots of the bronze fennel that is taking over my little gardening space. I turned to look at the back door and suddenly I started crying. He will not come to that door anymore to see what I'm doing and then go back in to fetch the correct tool for the job or a cold drink urging me to take a break. I don't know if I can live here anymore, facing season after season of the same place without him. I cleaned off his desk yesterday and found so many things: little Soviet clock in a box; our late dog, Sandy's picture ID with the note I wrote for him to give to the vet with her symptoms and the bill for the euthanasia and cremation that he had to face alone since we had no warning that she was so ill; cancelled checks for our rent on Vine St and for Orchard Park Nursery School; the credit card bill for the tile we bought in Union for the living room in our first house on Moravian. I thought as I made each room my own by moving things and storing things and painting things, I might be able to handle it. I moved my things into the top drawer of the bathroom vanity, but I keep going for the bottom drawer, still. We lived here for 17 of our 42 years together. I don't know if I can stay. I am dreading next Christmas already. It's been 15 weeks since he died and the knowledge that I will never see him again is becoming more and more real.
Posted by Diana Balot Frank at 1:12 PM