Widowed: My Husband’s Stuff Is Still Here. I’ve Got My Reasons

It’s been almost four years since Jon died, and my husband’s stuff is still here.

When I put my shoes on for the day, I sit down next to my husband’s black dress shoes. They’re still on the bench where he kept them.

The three sweatshirts he left on our bed the bed on the day he died aren’t on the bed anymore. They’re on the rocking chair across the room. They’re out of the way now, but still in sight. I see them out of the corner of my eye as I make my way from bed to closet to sweater drawer.

In his office, Jon’s headphones are on his desk. So is his back massager, still plugged in. His tech books, superseded now by generations of updates, fill a bookshelf.

Marriage, I’ve decided, is only a little bit about intensity, about those moments when conscious interaction is called for — when choosing a restaurant or agreeing to proofread the other person’s manuscript, or when somebody’s hogging the bedcovers.

Marriage, if you live in one long enough, is mostly about presence. It’s about being there. I don’t mean being there in the pop psych sense — like when someone loses a job or their car battery goes dead and they need you to “be there for them.”

What I’m talking about is the ease of daily life, knowing that the other person is present and keeping you company. It’s a garage door opening, a refrigerator door closing, the wheels of an office chair rumbling across a hardwood floor overhead.

Jon’s not here anymore. But his belongings are. He chose them. He brought them into the house. They speak of him. They keep me company. I keep them.

If you’re a writer, you might want to take a look at what’s on my bookshelves at “The Writing Room: Two Must-Have Craft Journals for the Literary Writer.”