Recollecting the deceased in the relationship
Coming back home now takes a whole new meaning and I'm reminded of that as I turn onto the short narrow street leading to my house. Once a cute and cozy Georgian country house with gingerbread trim ornamenting the wrap-around veranda, it is now nothing but a painful reminder of what my life used to be. Can I ever look at my house again and not have my heart shredded to pieces every time I see the old couch tucked in on the porch where Louise used to sit for hours knitting sweaters for me? Can I ever peak through my second-floor office window and stare at the 'Robin's Nest' corner without remembering sorrowfully the time I built it for her? It was a cute small rest area with a Victorian park bench amid a backdrop of lovely colourful bird houses. The first time she tried it, she cried and said, "You build beautiful things. Thank you, I love it". How can I erase the pain triggered by the sight of all that was our life together? I'm lost and desperate for relief.
I park the car under the massive maple tree overhanging the driveway and enter the house wondering where I'm going to store the urn until the reunion with family and friends for her celebration of life. The old summer country kitchen is a good place as I don't have to go there often. I unceremoniously place the container on a shelf as if it was burning coals and hurry to the dinning room in a desperate attempt to escape the hurt.
A useless gesture; I'm still choking, my throat is still constricted and I feel the walls closing in on me rapidly. Air, I need air. I restlessly tour the house in search of relief, but every room I visit tells the same story, nothing but loneliness, nothing but pain. I finally give up, get dressed and walk right back out, jump into my car, my only means of escape these days, open the window, turn the radio on and take off to nowhere.
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