Sorting through

There are so many things that I never thought I could do with respect to Frank's illness. How would it feel, I wondered, to come to the point where he would be so sick, that he could die any day? How would it feel on the day he died, or how would it feel to plan his funeral? How would I manage in the days and weeks after the funeral, after everyone had gone home, and I had no one but myself to talk to?

I'm still having those thoughts: How would it feel to be three-and-a-half months into Life Without Frank? It feels lousy, to be honest. Every day has an emptiness.

Now I've arrived at something I also never wanted to do, getting rid of his stuff. All of his clothes remain upstairs, his many three-piece suits still on hangers in the walk-in closet. His bureau drawers are as full as ever, with all his T-shirts and handkerchiefs and socks all folded as neatly if he'd be wearing them tomorrow. And his shoes are all lined up in a row, just as if he'd chosen to wear a different pair today to match his suit -- the brown versus the black, for example.

The clothes are one matter and, I understand, perhaps the last thing a widow wants to take care of.

In the meantime, I am working through taking care of much of the rest of Frank's things. From his 30 years in Maine, and in the 10 years before that, starting with his Navy years, he kept most of everything. The most meaningful of his things have gone back to his family. But still, there's more. And, even though I'm having a two-day sale for most of our furniture, and most of what we acquired together, I'm not ready to part with everything. Not yet, anyway. Not yet at all.