Dream

It's been two weeks.

I picked out a casket. I wrote a letter to be read at the funeral. I picked out clothes for him to wear. I proofed the memorial folder (apparently the little paper cards that are at every funeral ever have a name. I wish I didn't know that.) and made a couple of changes. I called pallbearers. I picked and printed pictures for photo boards.

I went to the apartment. (His apartment? Our apartment? It feels like home to me, anyway.) I packed boxes. I sorted through piles of mail and receipts. I took possession of all of his clothes, most of which are dirty. I took the sheets off of the bed, threw away our pillows, and left the bed by the dumpster, where its slantyness can hurt my back no more.

In a weird way, going through his apartment, sorting, packing, was like a girlfriend's dream. All of his stuff at my mercy, and it's not even called snooping, it's just something I had to do. I got to read his scribbled notes, throw away his melted utensils, fold his towels the right way. His clothes are mine to wear or throw away, the toothpaste cap will stay clean, the heat will no longer be a point of contention. I finally have a set of keys to his place.

It still doesn't seem real. I still cannot wrap my mind around the fact that he's gone. I still talk about him in present tense. I planned his funeral, I emptied his apartment, I did all of these tasks and I still don't believe it.

I wish it were just a dream, instead of my living nightmare.