Caution. Caution. Here is an insight into my wacked brain.
I am probably going insane now I think.
Roger would probably just look at me right now and say "You are weird" but here it goes...
Everytime I do laundry, clean my house, or throw things away, I feel like part of Roger is going away.
Not like his memory.
But his DNA.
The actual proof that he existed.
The dried skin. The hair. The fingerprints. The DNA.
I almost get nervous about washing my sheets.
Or wearing a T-shirt cause then it puts my DNA on the shirt instead of his.
And when I vaccuum, I think about how less and less of his germs, hair, and skin are going away.
I think about it when I wipe down something too.
I think about how his fingerprints are no longer going to be on things.
Its like I'm losing small parts of him sort of.
Not to worry, I am still doing these things.
But the thoughts are still there.
They won't go away.
I wonder if one day there will be no proof of him (scientifically) in the house.
If CSI could come in and not find a trace of him.
And all the memories and photos and other items will just be something I could have made up with lots of fancy photoshop and lots of drugs.
Yeah, I'm "normal."
1 comment:
Hi Star. =) If I'm normal, you're normal...and from the other widows I've come to know over the last three years, I know I'm pretty darn typical...so I guess you can take some comfort in the trend that you, too, must be normal. ;o)
It's been well over 3 years for me--closing in on 3 1/2, actually--since my husband died, but I still intentionally hold onto some things that still have his DNA on it, like the bloody helmet he was wearing when he died. Other than his toothbrush (I've absconded with his electric razor for those lazy-shaving days, so it's out of the running), the helmet is the only thing I have that could ever be used to identify him. Not that I keep it in the hope that human cloning can be possible someday or so that some clever CSI can use it someday to prove something (though I don't know what that might be), but I can't let it go. Other than his cycling shoes, which I still have somewhere (I think?), that helmet is the last thing I have that touched his body in the last breath he took. It seems sacred somehow...despite that it's stashed in a cardboard box on the top shelf in my garage, buried from easy access or sight. I can't get rid of it...even though I've gotten rid of almost everything else.
So yeah...I'm right there with you still on some things, despite how much longer it's been for me.
Nice to find you in blog-o-land, although I'm so sorry that we have this commonality to have met in the first place. Hang in there...those first few months can be really awful.
Hugs,
Candice
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