My house has been a disaster. Only in the last couple weeks has it felt restored to “normal”.
It is tidier than it has been in 18 months. The floors are clean. The counters, visible. And I have purged a considerable amount of “junk”.
Astonishingly, I feel a renewed sense of belonging, here, that I have not felt in a very long time.
It is only now that I am realizing that our house stopped feeling like home the moment we realized Mike was never returning to it.
For the first time, I am seeing my house as something else: a vacated womb. It had, quite literally, lost a life. And it has felt so very different ever since.
Mike’s voice no longer booming from the kitchen. “BIG DOG!” he used to call, to coax Juno outside one last time before turning in for the night.
No silly songs or chants sung to us as we each go through the mundane routines of our day.
Not even an indignant “Who left the milk out?!!”
No more signs of him having been in the family room. No flattened throw pillows and cushions. No sounds of his shuffling, slippered feet. No smells of him.
His absence is felt more acutely with every broken thing that is yet to be fixed.
Even the TV’s silence during certain times of the day seems deafening.
Truly, this house has felt foreign to us.
And so, I think, we have behaved like zombies in it: only doing what needs doing to get through our days, but not doing what must be done to take care of our home. Or if we did, it was in very rare spurts or with false starts (no successful endings).
Our joy in our home was snuffed out, and with it, our pride for the privilege of living in it.
This spring, I made small steps to clear the clutter. I started packing up our junk. I threw things away. I vacuumed carpets, swept and mopped floors. Scrubbed surfaces.
I bought flowers for no reason and put them in a vase.
Slowly but surely, this house has started to feel familiar again. Like an old friend I dug up under the dust and grime.
A friend I have had a deep love for. For what it has been to me in my life. For the secrets we share, and for the comforts I have found in her many spaces.
Remarkably, the girls have been picking up after themselves without me having to yell at them. They, too, are exhibiting a more caring attitude towards our home.
But I confess, I still can’t bring myself to get rid of Mike’s things. (Most days I cannot even bear to look at them.)
This, too, I think, will happen when I am ready. I have already made so much progress.
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