The Box.

I brought Z home from up north this weekend.

She’s been hanging out in the UP for the past 6 weeks.  I felt like that’s where she belonged for the time being.  But the seasons are changing.  It’s getting colder now.  The days are getting shorter.  There is more darkness than there was before.  It was comfortable with her there.  It felt right.

But it’s getting close to time to close up the cabin.  We’ve only got two or three more trips before we’re done.  And, obviously, I’m not going to leave her alone for the winter.  No visitors, no warmth.  There is no life over the winter.

She’s spending the winter with me.  It’s warmer here.

It’s… something?  I don’t know what it is.  But it’s for sure not where she’s supposed to be.  She’s supposed to be in school.  She’s supposed to be prepping for her nanny job that was going to take her Disney.  She was supposed to be complaining about or loving her living accommodations and I was supposed to be commiserating the high school v. college differences with her.

Instead, she’s here.

The box isn’t really the thing – the box contains ash.  It’s the physical representation of our loss. It’s what I’ve got to hold and look at and be near.  I can touch the box.  It’s heavy.  Surprisingly heavy.  It’s so heavy in my arms.  So heavy in my heart.

I moved Joe next to her.  These two boxes that contain so much of my life.

The reason I could never actually bury my husband is because I needed him with me.  I needed to be able to touch him.  The box was as close as I could get, so I took it.  Lots of people don’t like that I still have him in my house, but I had to have him around me.  I want to see the box.  It’s a pull from my soul that I can’t explain, so I just use the word “need” a lot and know that I can’t explain with my words and I hope people will understand.

She’s here.  She’s here.  She’s not here.  She’s gone. She’s here.

All I have is this box.

Two boxes.

Two stupid boxes.

3 thoughts on “The Box.

  1. Aunt Sylv October 1, 2017 / 10201710America/Detroit

    Oh, Amy, I (we) hurt with you.

    Like

  2. Stacey October 3, 2017 / 10201710America/Detroit

    So I need to not read these during my work day. My co-workers don’t know what to do with me when I sit in my cube sobbing, not being able to catch my breath because I can feel the weight, your emotions in this blog. I wish I could reach through my phone, air, land, etc. And wrap you in my arms and take away some of the pain. I hope you feel our love.

    Like

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