Onward.

​Image courtesy of Caleb Cliff, artist unknown.

On March 28, my world changes, again.  

​I will no longer live in Oakland.  I will no longer live in a city.  I will no longer live in the home that George and I built, the home that we came here to raise our family in.

I will no longer see his books in the bookshelf, or his clothes in the closet, or his bikes in the garage.  I will not accidentally find things that he stashed away in strange places, or think that I hear him bounding up the stairs like he used to do.

I will no longer be oblivious to the things he held onto in his workshop.  I have been through every one of those boxes, large and small.  I have painstakingly sorted through them, salvaging what I hope will one day give Nova a vision of the man her father was, the man she knows so well in her heart, but whose physicality will always be a mystery.

This move, in many ways, signifies the end of my marriage to George.  While our energetic connection remains undeniably strong, and our communion a continuing force in my life, there is a finality to our human relationship that occurs the moment the last box of belongings is removed from this house, and the keys are relinquished.  The physicality of our marriage dissolves, and the humanness that we once shared in this abode on the hill takes its final breath.  Our dreams go, too.

And when I move, there will no longer be a space in my home reserved for George.  In fact, there will no longer be a physical space anywhere in the world reserved for George, save for a box or a tin.  His physical presence, including the space he once occupied and hoped to return to, will cease to exist.  That space will be transformed into something new.

It feels like the end of so many things, and yet, surprisingly, I do not find myself fighting to hold on.  Because while this home held so much promise for us, it is also the place where I’ve now spent twice as long as George’s widow, than as his wife.  Within these walls I’ve experienced both the wonders of pregnancy and the tragedy of death, both the joys (and fears) of motherhood, and the grieving that finally seems to have an end.  The journey from love and excitement to despair and heartbreak, from anger and resistance to peaceful acceptance, has come full circle.  It is time to go, and to let go.

With love and peace in my heart, I am moving out.  Onward.