2016-02-19 - 7:31 p.m.

This hurts, Janice

I can't get rid of your clothes. I need the space.

I can't clean off your dresser. It's covered with your things. Your pocketknives, your change, your receipts...your dirt. It's an eyesore.

I can't take the sheets off our bed. You slept on them once...after I'd changed the linens. I'd taken off and washed the ones we liked best. I wish I hadn't done that; we'd slept on them for days. I can't lose that bit of you that is still in our bed, so I've slept on top of the covers since that day.

I can't pull up the black ground cover you laid out in preparation of putting up you greenhouses.

I can't put your shoes away. I can't put your shirts away. I can't take your coats and boots and things out of my way. I need to, and I can't. I can't stop hurting. I can't stop not believing this.

We slept on those sheets for days, until I thought they needed changing.
I washed them clean and wish I hadn't.
You were there.
All I had left.
I washed you away not knowing you would never come home.

I can't

�

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