This is about as gruelling as a boxing match. I went in to finish it off but couldn’t land it. It’s bloody awful picking through the remnants of a life. Kevin was somewhat unique in that everything had a name, his clothes, his shoes, his belts, all were codified. He had his ‘playing’ shirts; his school tee-shirts; his favourite black tees; his ‘gigging’ jackets; his regular suspenders and his ‘fancy’ ones; his ‘city’ shoes and his country shoes and the mainstay – his go with anything black jeans.
So going into that closet and getting rid of anything feels like betrayal. I pick it up, sniff it (if it has even the wisp of ‘his’ smell it stays), remember an occasion when he wore it, and then put it the undecided pile. The undecided pile is significantly larger than the donate pile. Then I have the mental anguish of figuring out whether the kids would want anything, and if so, what.
And what do I keep? Do I keep the darn wedding boots? That was the point of no return for me tonight, when I hit those boots. He’d kept them since we married in 1984. He would take them out every so often and put them on and tell me he hadn’t gained an ounce (on his feet) since the day we wed. How the heck do I get rid of those? I think that I keep those until the day I die.
It’s exhausting. And it has to be done. So the undecided pile will be the focus for tomorrow, followed by the books he stashed away in there. Some from his university days, some relating to his interest in art and music – books with his scratchy handwriting: critiquing, clarifying or challenging some point of genius he was interested in. My love. My loss.
Round three tomorrow and it should just about do me in.