de-constructing

People are here at the house demolishing.

Tearing out the spa, the home-made shack, the homemade herb garden, throwing away stuff, stuff. Backyard clean-up.

It’s all just stuff, isn’t it.

Seriously, isn’t it?

Because right now, as I watch the demolition it doesn’t feel like stuff.

It feels like my heart is being ripped from my body. I feel each nail, each piece of wood. The spa goes and I feel every night I spent in their with friends or the kid or, of course and especially, with Tom.

I give away the party heater because someone can use it. I allow the little wrought iron tables to be taken for scrap, those that rested the margarita’s and chips at every pool party we ever had. The gas BBQ that has sat here collecting rot for 7 years, gone. Let it go. The chaise lounges that have seen such better days, the pool floats that won’t be used again by me. By us. The chairs that will be thrown or sold in a garage sale because they are just stuff.

But my friends sat in these chairs. My son grew up with them. My husband and I bought them, together, and sat in them and talked in them. He BBQ’d. I never did, still don’t know how. I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table looking at this stuff and now it is disappearing before my eyes. My wet eyes.

Just stuff. Not real. I have the memories but the tangible stuff is so hard to see go, especially as it goes to trash Trash? My life?

Those things I do not need, that stuff.

This stuff is not my life

A suggestion of a deck will be built to cover the spa hole. A selling point (“all ready for a spa to be dropped in if you’d like !). It will be the new owners choice. When we saw the spa off the bathroom we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. I know that was exactly where we were. Our heaven, here.

Now it’s just a house.

Just stuff, where once it was the stuff that dreams were made of.

How did that happen..how….

I know. No answers. Life. death. Fuck.

 

There’s more stuff. As the back is cleaned so go the files, the drawers. The shredder needs to come. That stuff is my work, slow going. The outside stuff is going fast. No attachment.

 

Stuff.

OUR stuff.

NO. Just stuff

 

I do not want to feel this. I am working so hard to detach and there is only so much I can do.

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3 Comments

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  1. Oh, sweetie. It’s a big huge frickin’ band aid being ripped off. A mighty ouch for sure. And a mighty woman who’s ouching. By the way, you created the stuff of magic this weekend for my daughter – a mountain of beautiful memories for her and us and our family.
    I’m right up the street, ready to haul and hold.
    Love you

  2. Michele-

    You write with devastating clarity. It takes the reader into your head and into your heart and one cannot help but feel every feeling, ask every question, reach every conclusion right along with you. Does detachment, letting go, ever get any easier? I don’t imagine it does. We’re here, your friends, to relieve, to relive, to renew.

  3. Sigh…. No that can’t be easy at all.
    Big hugs. Hang in there. It’s gotta get easier at some point. Geez I hope so.

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