In my house I’ve always made it a habit to fill the walls with everything I could make hang from a nail or hook or removable sticky situation. I like the texture it adds, I like the interest of the things. My walls are fun to look at.
When I was headed up north for her funeral (Life Celebration?) I took all of the family photos off the walls. Pictures of her with just her sister, pictures of her by herself taken by her sister. The entire family. A Lake Superior photo of just the three of us taken shortly after I buried my husband. That was a one of my first good days. They were all fun days. I especially love the black and white photo strip taken at an old-school photo booth in St. Louis.
After the week was over I brought back a double-walled produce box of all of my photos to go back on the walls.
I can’t put them back – I’m not ready to have the constant reminder. My baby won’t be part of any more photos. This is all I have for her whole life. I won’t have anything else to add. Her constant childhood looking at me. She was on the precipitous of adulthood. I mourn for what she will miss.
I have to put them back. My fractured family needs her here. She can’t go. She won’t fade. She lingers with us. I have to put them back.
After two and a half weeks, my walls are in the order they were before.
I’ll continue to add new photos as time envelopes our lives. The photos will always be a little lighter. I’ll always find a space where she should have been standing. There will be an edge of light I’ll look for and find, because I need it to be there.
I stand on the precipitous of love. 0 stars. Would not recommend.
Pictures, socks on the floor, hair brush, etc. little reminders of a life lived. It’s so terribly hard to put them away. Someday, maybe.