Purging Grief

4, 3, 2, 1...days remaining until May 16th, until it is officially twelve years since my Robbie died. I have been busier than usual this year, unsuccessfully trying to convince my heart that it's not so bad this year, this impending death-iversary, that I'm not really spinning or dwelling on that most horrible of days.

I am a liar.

Robbie is in my thoughts every moment, awake and asleep. I don't wake screaming like I used to, and I take that as a win. I haven't broken down in the middle of Meijer in years, another mark of progress; but the memories are swirling, stirred up and whooshing inside of me now for weeks. I used to tamp them down, made it into a cheer in fact: Tamp it down, tamp it down, waayyyyy down! Poor coping device, by the way, always ending in explosive episodes when least expected. 

So, no more tamping, but definitely brushing aside, like a wispy spider web string as I walk under my red maple to check my flower beds; but even brushing can only work so long.

The closet begs cleaning. Twelve years ago, all the remnants of that week...set inside the closet inside the room that used to hold my son. Since then, I have moved and rearranged the items, allowed myself to believe the lie that everything is fine, and closed the sliding closet door upon grief's souvenirs. 

The closet must be purged. Clean the closet. Clean my heart. Make room for the words that have been knocking but I have found no space to hold. It is the only way to move forward, and though I stalled, found myself stuck for a while, the closet is calling, and soon I will answer.





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