A Haven No More

My husband died, suddenly, on Feb.05/20, in a horrific car crash. When I look around the home we shared for 14 years, everything in my heart, and mind, hurts.

I see every moment and memory, dissipating like a wisp of smoke, and I just…hurt. And miss him. And miss us.

I sit at my computer, and turn around to share a thought, an idea, a musing…and there’s only an empty chair, looking back me from his corner of our space.

I sit on our couch, where we’d lean into each other to watch a movie or read our books. I sit on my side. His side isn’t welcoming anymore.

I don’t go up to bed until I’m exhausted, because I lie there waiting to hear him breathe and to hold me and to make my world less broken, which was his gift to me.

His empty tea mug sits in the cupboard, somewhere it’s never been before as it was in use pretty much all the time, and only because it didn’t break when I hurled it at the wall in anger and pain.

I don’t want to be here without him.

But I am here, and he isn’t, and he never will be again.

Our son and daughter will have their familiar place, their go-to when the world kicks their young adult asses and they need a safe landing space. To re-group. To get strong, before heading back out into their lives. I will stay for them.

Our herd of rescue cats has never lived anywhere else. They need stability and sameness to continue to be identified as rescued. I will stay for them.

I will stay in our home, hoping for eventual healing for all of us. I will sit in the dark, cold rooms, without the warmth of his presence, because I have to believe I will not feel like this forever.

I will hope, that someday, the memories will not feel like a knife being punched into me, that every little creak on the stairs will not make me think he’s here, that I will be strong enough to see the empty dresser drawers and the open spots on the boot mat. That the walls will again know love and laughter…

But that is not today. It is not tomorrow.

In time, I have to believe that it will be easier to be here and present, in our home, which is now my home, but until that happens, my home is no longer my safe haven and my challenge is to cope with the seemingly infinite sadness and numbness that envelopes me as soon as I walk in the door.