The finality of it is what keeps surprising me. That there is no going back, just to clarify, just to see if we could, just to say hello. And the guilt, that there had been moments when I had wanted to speed it all up and others that I had wanted to slow.
Now, just stretches out before me without boundaries, a vast, plain vista of existence, taut to the edge, to the end of my days, whenever that may be. I had wondered how to colour in the spaces for a short while. Today, most days, I don’t bother, the effort of it all, too much. I float as if blindfolded through the abyss.
At first, it had been busy, who knew that dying was such an instigator of action? Not me. Arrangements, appointments, then your funeral and then, not an awful lot. The concerned calls levelled out, and aloneness became more acute.
One Friday, I began to pack up your clothes and then your toiletries. I binned the open plastic and glass and then, all of it. I could cope with ignoring the contents of black bags, climbing the grimy open tread steps at the municipal recycling yard, and heaving them over the edge into the cavernous metal containers. Charity shops with their concerned helpers were not my thing. I rang your friend Joe to collect all the tools. I will never be a plumber, so best for a clean sweep.
For no reason, I began painting every wall, cupboard, and shelf in every room, white. First, I used up all the white paint in the house and then settled on a dull shade of white from the local DIY centre. Everywhere, layer upon layer of white.
Binning a life was addictive. Every ornament went. Every unnecessary item left the building. I was regimented about it. A single plate setting, vital kitchen knives and pans, less than a suitcase of clothing, six books, a bed and a lamp remained. The sofa stayed, a table and a chair.
Then, I filled the place with air. Opening every window and every door, day and most nights for a week. A feeling that something needed to escape, to breathe, that air in could equal pain out, and yet. What can I say? It is not you it’s me. I need to escape, even as I carry us with me, I do carry you with me; I can’t paint that out. I need to escape me. The old me. The me of us. I need to rediscover the me of me, who I decide and choose to be.
I didn’t know though, that in the retreat, I could lose even that ambition. Regardless of bright white, air and space, I am a shadow of a lost self, waiting. Waiting for a reason to bother with more.
My bag is still packed, I’m just not sure of what comes next. Then a tap against the windowpane. Sitting on the sofa, gazing into nothing, I turn and look. It must be winter, I think, that Robin is back again. A half-smile, an echo, It’s snack time in Sunflower Seed Season. I need to refill the bird feeders now.
And I begin once more, to colour me in.