What almost made me fall off that stupid ladder was the size of his shoes. There they were so very real, not ghost like at all. Every time I looked at the proof that he lived, I experienced the loss of him all over again. Holding a huge garbage bag of his t-shirts (that are waiting to become a quilt someday) I was overcome by the power of yesterday. I wanted to hear him make fun of me, instead of imagining what he would say to me as I dither over whether I can give away his dirty, old lunchbox. I know without a doubt that he would instruct me to let go of all the stuff. What I want to know is will he be gone when all the literal evidence of his existence is sorted into one of those neat piles in our garage? Seven years, one International support organization, one million widowed people impacted, one happy remarriage later...and death still sucks. I am pretty sure there is a lesson in there somewhere.
The hopeful lining? My life now is really good despite of, and because of, the path my life has taken. Phil's love changed me, and so did his death. I know now that the pain of losing him is part of his legacy to me. That sharpness around his loss reminds me of how very much he was loved. Every tear still has a meaning, I will try to remember that the next time I get pretty cocky.