P helped me start to tackle the closet today: the sorting of Randy's clothes, which I know from last time I did this--twenty years ago--is not to be put off. It's not so much easier to do it now; it's just that I know enough to focus these Task Mode spurts into something that will show at the end of the fragmented day. So: first: the pillows. Into the trash bag. I have a sinus condition that severely inhibits my sense of smell, but even if I could smell Randy in these pillows, he died on them. Out, out.
Next, the clothes rack/bar inside his closet: everything on hangers. Old jeans, slacks I can't remember him wearing, shirts. But wait, the shirts. Rather than donate the ones I can't wear, maybe some of his friends would like a shirt? I don't know, but I can't toss them until I know.
And the jeans, some so worn and soft that I can't help burying my face in them and inhaling, even though I can't smell them: their softness is so comforting. And it occurs to me that the thrift store that receives these clothes will be a place where I may no longer be able to shop, because how strange to be drawn to a shirt only to recognize it was his, and then I realize we don't wear the same size except for maybe a sweatshirt or two. Which I will keep.
Socks and underwear into the trash bag. Except the matched, balled socks, which someone may need, so into the donation bag which has grown so heavy that P says we might have to drag it.
The salwar kameez we bought in Houston for our handfasting. The black vest. The sash I made from scarlet raw silk we purchased at High Fashion Fabrics. What outfits, what cutie bears we were that day.
A leather vest, two, that I'll never wear. The only leather friends I can think of are from fifteen years ago, maybe longer, back in Houston.
A bag to donate, and a bag to throw away: enough for now. The bare bed just a bed. The room beginning to hollow.
Tonight, lugging the throw-away bag to the trash, I opened the lid to find Sadie's dog bed still folded in half, taking up most of the bin. Only Wednesday, but it feels a planet ago that we lost her. Grief's cogs turn differently, separate from and oblivious to the wheels of standard time, trash pickup schedules.
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