Monday, December 8, 2014

The Thief



I have been here in England for almost a week, having left my ‘home’, in Indiana, where I grew up, on Tuesday night. Slowly, I am settling back into this space that Stan and I shared.

I love this place, this century old cottage, with its wood floors and cabinets, its quirky, misshapen rooms, perched at the top of a hill, just a few feet from the countryside paths that I walk, most days. It is small, as most homes are, in England, but it was enough for the two of us.

I remember the first time I came here, shortly after I met him. I was so impressed by the beauty of it—the stone fireplace, the artwork he had chosen to adorn his walls, the overgrown garden in the back.



I haven’t altered much, since he died, six months ago. I have cleaned and dusted, a bit. I have transformed his man-cave computer room into a guest room, should anyone from America decide to pay me a visit. I have given away most of his gadgets and clothes. But, for the most part, the house remains the same. It feels disrespectful to change it.

This was his house. The art on these walls belonged to him. I eat from his plates, cook in his pots, store my food in his fridge. This was his road. His community. We held his wake at The Beehive, his local pub down the street, with his family and friends. I attend groups and meditations with his Buddhist Sangha. Since he died, I have been welcomed and embraced by all who knew him. But I only got to share this world with him for a little while, not long enough to make it ours—to make it my own.

I awaken in the morning and sit in the window of his man-cave computer room turned guest room, where the view is magnificent, and I watch the clouds roll across the sky. I can picture him, in this room, in his chair, his gaze fixed upon the trees below, in search of the crows that nested there. I find my way down the stairs to the kitchen, and I can hear him asking me to bring him a cup of tea in his favourite mug. I drink my coffee from it, now.  His winter hat still hangs on the hook in the foyer, as does his scarf. The photos of his children and grandchildren still rest on our living room shelves.

Sometimes, I feel like an interloper, a thief, like I swooped in and overtook my husband’s place in the world, a world that was so much richer with him in it. I can’t begin to fill this space, in the way that he did. Everyone knew him, in the village, it seemed. He couldn’t walk down the high street or get through the queue at the shops without running into a host of acquaintances and friends. A half hour trip often turned into an hour or more, as people stopped and engaged him in conversation. He was well known, and well loved.  His presence here was broad and expansive.

I like to think that Stan would have wanted me to stay here, with his things, amongst the hills and the people he loved. I like to think that my remaining here preserves his memory, somehow—that, by staying here, I am paying honour to who he was, to what was important to him.


One day, I will hang my own art in the living room, take up the carpet, paint the walls. But not yet. This place still carries his spirit, and I want to hang onto it as long as I can. 

I can’t fill the empty space he left. I can only bring to it my own presence, a presence that is quieter, less exciting, perhaps, a bit more sedate. It will take me awhile to feel like I have a right to occupy this space. It will take some time before I can make this place my own. Before I can call it home.


7 comments:

  1. Hi, Tricia. I'm so glad you write here. It's got me thinking about my late husband's legacy to me. I was torn between preserving his legacy and allowing my yet-to-be self to emerge. I built a special area in the garden to honor him, and looking back, this probably freed me up to eventually remove most traces of him inside the house. But, this process took many years, at a pace that was only slightly?!? uncomfortable. Anyway, it's how I both preserve his legacy and allow myself to create my own. You have a wonderful heart, and good instincts, and I'm glad you're trusting yourself to find your way.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks--I know that there are some things I will want to change. Some of the art feels more 'him' than 'me' and I think by spring I will want to go to wood floors upstairs. But for now, it is a comfort to be with his things.

      Delete
  2. Your words resonate deeply. It was Mike who initially prodded me to move to Hawaii...so far away, so remote...yet so beautiful and special. We were here 11 years together and he was also quite the man about town, so many people knew and loved him, and this house I am still in will always hold a part of him. It's been already quite a process for me here, learning to deal with disappearing relationships with people who were, I know now, attached to him rather than me. Having to deal with his space...now I've made it my office, and I sit here with his same view as I type this, in his chair, at his desk, with some of his special things around me. It is comforting and yet also a challenge each day. I send you warm hugs from across the globe.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes, Stephanie, it is a very different experience, I think, to live far away from your own community and in the midst of someone
      else's. But I do love it here, and one day, I hope, it will feel like my own. Changing his computer room was the hardest task, because he was in there a lot, and I used to go and hug his empty chair, before I changed everything. But I still feel his presence in there.

      Delete
  3. 18 mths after my husband died I put the house he was born and died in up for sale. I could no longer breathe in it. It was always his house. I've been in my house now for 6 mths and feel much more at peace. I brought all my memories with me but i am no longer suffocated by his absence

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This is something to think about. When he first died, I thought I would always stay here. Now I am not so sure. I am here for now. We will see how things go. I may just travel around awhile. I don't know. It helps to know I can do what is right for me, when the time comes. Thanks.

      Delete
  4. It's wonderful how you are living into his absence, bringing his space into your life and sharing it with him, and how you are bringing your presence into his place. Gentle writing about hard realities.

    ReplyDelete