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 the bed on the day he died aren’t on the bed anymore. They’re on the rocking chair across the room where I can see them.

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 His tech books, now superseded by several generations of updates, fill a bookshelf.

I can’t have Jon anymore, but I can have his stuff. And his things keep me company.

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

Widowed: My Husband’s Stuff Is Still Here

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 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 wooden 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.

For now.

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.”