My friend Los, who I grief bonded with after he lost his wife six months after I lost Bob, uses FaceBook as his therapy. Every day after work, before going to bed, he posts some memories of his life with Ellen. He hasn't missed a day yet. I do read them every day, although after more than 1000 posts they're getting a bit repetitive so I sort of glance through them. But he's desperate to keep her memory alive, so I at least leave a heart emoji, or sometimes make a comment.
I don't feel the need to go that far, but there are some memories that I adore, and keep coming to mind - like every time I take a bath. I love very hot long soaking baths. They're one of my winter joys, because a long soaking hot bath in the summer just isn't quite as enjoyable. The one I will always remember was just a few years after we got married. We were renting a small house - 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom. I had just settled into my bubble bath, with my it candle, relaxing. In walks Bob, with his magazine, sits down, says "don't mind me" and well, you know.
He hadn't closed the door all the way, so our two cats, Algernon and Ptarmigan, joined us. They jumped up on the side of the tub, wondering what the hell I was doing, and Algie accidently pushed Ptarm in, and suddenly I had a Jacuzzi with razor blades. I was able to scoop her out, and she promptly did what most animals do when suddenly dumped in warm water: peed all over the bath mat.
We didn't have our own washer at the time, so after I got out of the bath I had to throw the bath mat in and hand wash it.
For some reason, I didn't feel that relaxed and refreshed after the bath - but I always remember it.
And it's memories like this that make me miss him the most. It's easy to sanctify someone when they're gone, to remember the best parts of them. Those eyes. That smile. Him bottle feeding a baby squirrel, or holding a kitten. Those are the gentle memories. But the ones that make me curl up and hurt, that deep visceral missing of him, are the ones where he was most human, when he could be a pain in the ass. When he'd toss dirty paintbrushes in the kitchen sink. When there would be three or four laundry baskets of his clothes in the bedroom because he'd run out of places to stuff his clothes but God Forbid if I suggested that he get rid of any (literally 150 T-shirts, or 12 pairs of shoes/boots that didn't fit). At those times he's just so human, so real, and so not here anymore.
I've been on a cleaning up kick lately. I spent three days burning deadfall in the yard, and took down the old butterfly garden fence and powerwashed the old swing. Then I spent two days reorganizing the cottage and doing some purging there. What I was doing has a name: Creative Work Avoidance. I used to do it when I worked - you take care of some minor tasks, so you are working and keeping busy while sort of procrastinating on some major task.
I had told myself during the hot weather months that when I got cool I would tackle the barn some more. Guess what? It's cool.
Our transfer station (aka The Dump) is only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I did my usual run on Sunday morning - then girded up my loins and tackled the barn a bit. In an hour or so I had filled the car and was able to dump it as well. I only cleared a small area, but it was something.
Some years back, when Bob was bemoaning his lack of space (in the 1,000 square foot barn) I came up up with the idea of a room within the barn. I built a free standing storage unit, 8 feet long, 6 feet high, which made a work area about 8x10 in one corner of the barn. That's 48 square feet of shelving, with more space to put things on top, and a solid back where hooks could be installed to hold more stuff.
It didn't take long to fill up, with more bins of stuff on the floor.
I was able to clean about 6 feet of the bench top before the car was full. Sometimes I wish I had a passel of friends to just come and drag the stuff out, or maybe I could hire a couple of guys and a truck for a day, but I just can't do it. This stuff, such as it is, was somehow important to him. It was Useful. He Might Need It Someday. It Was Still Good. And I keep hearing his voice - from whenever I suggested he might want to sort or organize or gasp! get rid of some stuff - "Would you stop trying to get rid of my stuff!"
So I can't ask someone else to do it. Each piece of detritus must be held for a moment, with a quick apology before it goes in the trash bag (with a lesser amount of stuff going to the donation site).
But it's at these times, when he is the most human, the most real, the most frustrating, when I'm saying "Why, Bob, just why" (like why when you had to shorten the giant-sized zip ties did you save all the cut off ends?) that it really hits me, even as we near the four-year mark, that he's really gone.
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