Unstuck.

Moving out of the house on Prince Street had been a topic of debate for some time.  Half of me always wanted to flee, to find solace within walls that were not shadowed by George’s absence, and half of me clung to that home as if my identity depended on it, as if by leaving it would simply dissolve and become some formless thing that I would not know how to build upon.

​On March 28, three men loaded a truck with my belongings and moved my life to another place.  A new street.  New walls.  And yes, a new identity.  It feels distinctly different to live in this new place.

I am still Nova’s mother and my mother’s daughter, and George’s wife.  I am still his widow, but I am no longer the widow who is rooted to a home which she could never really have.  There was always a longing that I never could escape, no matter how much acceptance or peace of mind I managed to attain, and it was impossible for me to not remember him at every turn.  This was at first a major disturbance, and then a gentle nag, and then a comfort, a security blanket.  I could stay close to George if I stayed in that house.  I would not forget him, and all of his details.  I still considered him my husband, and this was our home.  It was a matter of loyalty.  Leaving was the ultimate letting go.

Now here I am, having reached the first stepping stone to my new life, the next horizon.  This is the place I wished to fast-forward to in those first treacherous weeks and months after George’s departure, when the pain and disillusion seemed too much to bear in real-time, when all I could dream of, short of bringing my love back from the dead, was a place where I could feel normal again, a time when I could consider my future without denying my past.  

Suddenly I am here.  I have made it.  The chapter on grief as an all-consuming, all-encompassing project with no end date has been penned and is ready to turn a new page.  The conclusion?  That was really hard.  I never want to do it again.  But I would, for love.  The hard truth about love is that our bodies are bound by time and sooner or later we have to say goodbye, but it’s worth every minute of mourning.  

And being here, in this new home which knew no George, I find that I am no further away from him at all.  I am glad I stayed at Prince Street to process and grieve in the familiar surroundings of our life, but George would have come with me wherever I went. 

​So now the burning question -- What next?  I am unstuck.  It is an exciting and frightening place to be.