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Friday, February 25, 2011

It's Starting to Get Gross

There was an initial thought for me when Matt died that you still have them around in some way. Sure, he's dead, I know that, but he's not gone, right? That huge mind game you play with yourself that death doesn't mean gone. After all, there are pictures, memories, videos, you have their stuff, you are in the places they spent most of their days. Here's the catch; not one of those things I listed, the things that were 'suppose' to keep him alive, hold any piece of his soul, of his spirit.

Back then I could look in a drawer filled with paper clips, used screws, and an electronic contraption or two and get annoyed, then laugh, and know that he was close by. It reminds me of how I felt the day of the visitation, it was of very little comfort for me to say goodbye to his body. His body, these objects, the places he was they are all empty without his spirit driving them. I want the things he did leave behind to bring me more comfort, and rather it just seems death is taunting me. They are instead a constant reminder that Matt, my Matt, won't ever fill up a room for me again.


It's similar when I watch our home videos, the ones I have been able to so far. I'm noticing that I can watch a video of Matt, and see him make Evelyn laugh. But the laugh in the video is a previous laugh from a previous joke. The laugh there never changes, the joke begins to grows old. The joy of this memory starts to fade to sadness as you notice the laughter you shared as a family because of his spontaneous humor in that moment isn't one you will ever share again. What you desire is for him to walk into a room and poke fun at Evelyn and I for something silly we are doing during this moment. For him to make us laugh today. For him to make me smile right now.

It's no different with a picture. I look at a picture of Matt and see how his skin is wrinkled in certain spots around his eyes, his goofy grin when he was avoiding the camera, or the curve of his upper lip when he smiles. But I can't lift my hand and place it under his chin. I can't feel the warmth of his face, or the stubble of his facial hair. I can't lay my head in the crook of his arm with my head on his chest. The place every wife knows, the place you can hear their heart beat and rest for hours in safety and comfort. Right now, for today, my hand still knows how his skin feels, but I can't help but wonder for how long?

I was able to wear his t-shirt, the only one that happened to be dirty when he passed, for a week before it just no longer smelled of him. I clutch that shirt now while I go to sleep, the one I've tried in vain to spray with his cologne knowing that it won't do any good. The truth of it is Matt's cologne without Matt is nothing but an unfamiliar fragrance that holds no place in my heart.

Yes, there is a small piece of comfort in all these things still. These things are better then nothing , but there is something massive missing. His spirit. . .his soul. . .his energy. I miss his energy at times so very terribly it can make me ill. I want so badly for Isaac to know just what his father's spirit was capable of on this Earth. My prayer is that Isaac grows up to possess that same energy his father had, that it would be a God driven comfort for all of us to know that beautiful energy like Matt's is capable to exist once more, and I would be so grateful.

And so today I'm going to wash the sheets on our bed. They are gross, and it is time. I am literally broken over this, it seems so crazy. They are dirty sheets, and they need to be washed. But what is it that I'm doing? I will put them into my washer and the water will wash some of my last traces of him right down the drain. Laying in our bed since that evening is the one thing that has continued to bring a constant feeling of home to my heart, as if a little of him is still in those sheets somewhere. That last chocolate sauce stain next to his pillow will be removed, the stains that I had bugged him about every time he came to bed with a bowl of ice cream. His sweat stains on the pillowcases won't be there anymore. The softness of where he had laid will be pulled back taut by the water, and I'll be left with nothing but clean sheets.

Today is a sad day. I don't want pictures, videos, his clothes, or gross sheets. All I want is Matt.


4 comments:

Kyan said...

Beautiful.

I am far away from a person close to heart as well. I frantically spray my old cologne to conjure the joy I had, but I find my ability to relive the precise moments fades each time as new memories begin to overwrite the old.

Keep up the "ranting" :)

A Young Widow's Rant said...

Kyan,
Thanks so much for the comment. I have had to pack so much of our stuff already since we'll be needing to move, and I was just thinking the other day how I need to 'unpack' the cologne, lol. It will never be the same though. . .
Steph

Darcy said...

My husband died on February 16, 2011. When I noticed that yours died just days before, I started back at the beginning of your blog...

I couldn't make myself wash the sheets for probably a month. I still haven't moved his tennis shoes from the bedroom floor. Heck, I even vacuumed around them today. As hard as the last 4 months have been for me, I am so thankful that it is only my own grief I have to deal with. I cannot imagine having children to share that with, and I wish you lots of strength which you seem to already have a lot of.

Robin said...

While searching online for a young widow support group I stumbled on to your blog. I went back to the beginning and can already relate to much of what you've written. My husband was killed in an accident at work on March 25, 2011at the age of 34. We have three young children and unlike a previous comment, I can't imagine not having them as a distraction and source of joy. My youngest was six months old at the time of the accident and I'm thankful for such a happy sweet baby to keep my mind and hands busy. I appreciate your faith and how you speak so openly about it. I plan to keep reading and hope to get a little comfort from someone who shares a similar experience. -Robin