About to Move

            On Saturday I get the keys to the new apartment and will start moving a few things over. The new place is about four miles from the old one. I won’t start living there until the following Tuesday when the movers pack up and transfer all of my possessions; if I remember to set aside some bedclothes and locate a pillow from the piles of stuff, I’ll sleep there that night.

          I’ve been in the current apartment almost 13 years since Kris and I moved in together. I’m leaving alone. He’s gone and the past nine months have been an elaborate move, sorting through his many, wildly varied, I daresay innumerable, things. Hundreds of items were donated to a local charity; others were recycled or tossed in the trash or in a few cases given to relatives and friends. I moved him out mostly on my own.

          In the course of it I winnowed through my things too and am still disposing of what we bought together, the furniture—none of it expensive or valuable—and far too much kitchen gear. His car is gone, sold in the fall. His photos I’ve kept and am still sorting although many are from long before we met and the people and scenes they show are mysteries. The whole process has been mysterious, often labyrinthine. So much of it to deal with. I had help with the clothes, bless the three people who volunteered forever because there was enough in his closet for a small nation. But the rest I did by myself, part of it because I wanted to. The rest of my solitude was sponsored by Covid-19.

          Never let a loved one die during a pandemic. Nothing good follows.

          I’m looking forward to being out of this apartment which for more than nine months now has been full of his presence in ways that sometimes hurts. We did not always have an easy relationship; this dwelling is a reminder of that as much as of the times we laughed here and shared good moments and twined our lives together as if that would always be so.

          I’ll be taking memories with me, mostly good ones. And since I’ll live not far away, I’ll still often see the places we went together, the restaurants we enjoyed, several of his various workplaces. It’s a matter of fact, and that’s how it feels usually as the deep pain of separation comes less often though it’s not gone and I don’t know if it ever will be. I’ve got a year’s lease on the new place, downsized to a one bedroom to realign my rent to fit my circumstances. After that year, I might choose to move farther. The memories will go with me, the whole lot, as they always have in previous moves, but perhaps the occasional unexpected jabs of grief may then have fewer occasions to sting me.

          As one did the other day when I drove past a restaurant we ate at just once a number of years ago. And thought how I accidentally said something he thought was funny and he laughed loud and long. Drew some attention. His face lit up when he laughed, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else look so alive.

          I’m inclined to move, then, to stop bumping into our history quite so often, and because a number of my friends are probably going to be moving as retirements pile up (as they are), and besides, I teach online now and could do more of that than in-person classes when the pandemic subsides.

          How does one build a new life after a loss like this? Damned if I know. But I hope to find out. I’ll continue to attempt it in San Jose for awhile, at least a year if anything can be predicted, but after that? I don’t know.

          What do I want? For now, to stabilize in a new apartment with some new (once again modest) furniture; to see more friends more often as vaccination rates rise and normal life slowly resumes; to take a few short road trips, probably solo, to see some new places and get to know myself outside of the context of illness and loss and grief that has prevailed for nearly two years now; and to catch glimpses of possible futures, God willing.

          Glimpses will be fine for now.

          In the meantime, I need to remember to pack my underwear. No one else should do that, seriously—no one. I’ll take the lot over to the new apartment myself.

          The movers can pack and heft everything else because at this point I’ve done enough of that. I carried out perhaps 25 car loads to Hope Thrift and about five boxes of paper to a shredding company and maybe 15 garbage bags full of recycling. I’ve managed to get furniture carted off and sold a few items and mailed out more. I’ve already moved, except for what I’ll take with me.

Nine months plus. It’s time to go.