As the process of moving continues, my heart becomes heavier. The work seems endless, a purging of decades of items purchased or given that has filled three levels to the ceiling.  Only a third can come with me. And that might be too much. And with each long day done, I crawl into bed hoping that what I have had to leave behind will not come back to haunt me. This is especially true with Zane’s things.

Clearing out his room was by far the hardest room to do.  I would only be able to tolerate a short time, a few things to sort before the memories of these belongings and what they meant to him would bring me to my knees in tears. With that, I would close the door to his room and come back another time.

In the end, I have a box of games and books and leisure items that I will share with his friends. I have packed all his clothes and will decide another time what the fate of each piece will be.  Some will be shared, some will be made into pillows or a quilt or maybe another bear.  (My memory bear, made out of one of his favorite hoodies, is a treasured piece that sits on my bed). I threw out or donated his toys he kept from his childhood; well, a box of favorites is coming with me. I am taking his desk and his bed, hoping it will fit in my tiny new abode. We packed his collection of wines to enjoy with family and friends on special occasions. His room is now ‘staged’ to sell. He would be pleased how tidy it is.

His bathroom was even harder than his bedroom.  I left that to last.  Opening his drawer to find his toothbrush and hair brush, waiting there for him to wake up and use them. His box of contact lenses; he had just renewed his prescription. His cologne and deodorant; I closed my eyes, sprayed it into the air to smell how he would smell after a shower. His daily routine in this bathroom; I can hear him singing in the shower. I can see him rubbing the hair crème between his hands and placing it perfectly to shape his hair. He spent more time on his hair than I did on mine! None of his personal hygiene items will be taken with me. There is a sad finality around this. Packing up his stuff drives home the fact that he will not be stopping by to pick them up.  I will not be helping move them over to his new place. This is it. And that takes a lot of energy.

The hardest thing I will be leaving behind is the imprinted energy of my son growing up and living in this home. I wish I could bottle the energy to open and breathe in his smell, to see his clothes on the floor or the school work scattered on his desk. I wish I could bottle the sound of his laughter as he beat the latest video game.  The emotions and the memories of my son’s life in this home now must reside in my heart.

Perhaps that is why the whole in our heart is so vast; there is a lifetime of photographic moments that fill it.