Packing And Pain

I've probably cried more in the last two weeks than I have in the last four months.  It's been an extremely emotional time lately, and I think it's all starting to come to a head.

Jason's house is officially sold.  The closing date which was set for December 30th has just been moved up to December 22nd.  I'm leaving town the 22nd to go to Boston, so everything's gotta be done before then anyway. However, the reality of that date and how close it's going to come is just now setting in...and it's killing me.

This weekend and next, we'll be packing up the entire house to move it all out.  Most of the stuff is going to be donated to the Salvation Army.  Some of it's coming with me, some with his friends, and the rest will go to his parents.  So, here I sit...alone in the house trying to pack.  I've already had one complete breakdown (on the phone with his mom...not good).  I've just recovered from that, and decided I should probably sit down for a bit.  Writing helps.

As I stood there wrapping all of the plates in the kitchen with paper and placing them gently in the box that will carry them out of the house, I began seeing flashes of dinners we had together.  I began seeing flashes of the times we spent laughing and playing around in the kitchen.  I came across a decorative plate with Faneuil Hall painted on it.  It's a Boston landmark...and one that Jason and I visited together when we were there in April.  I was immediately transported back to that night...walking hand in hand through downtown Boston.  We walked through Faneuil Hall, and then down to the Boston Aquarium and right onto the water.  We stood there in the cold and talked.  It was a beautiful night...one I'm glad I remembered.  It's amazing what a simple plate can do.

But that's when I started to cry.  The tears flowed because all of these things, these material things that have the power to transport me to another place are going to be disappearing in the next two weeks.  The memories they'll leave behind will still be there, but it's just not the same.  This is so incredibly hard.  On one hand, I wish I could just blink and have it over with...just rip the band-aid right off.  But, on the other hand, I feel like I need to have this time, these extremely sad moments, because they're all a part of the grief that's consumed me.  An interesting catch-22, I guess.

The thought of getting up from this couch and going back in the kitchen to continue packing leaves me feeling nauseous.  But, it's got to get done.

Here goes...

Until next time --
Stuart