My reserves are further stressed this week by closing out Morgan’s apartment in Blacksburg. Mine to do, I know. Both an honor and a most taxing obligation. I really liked the chance to have my hands in the mix of her life one last time. To read all Morgan’s scrawled lists and post- its everywhere. She was so busy, so many plans to do and accomplish. Smell her t-shirts. Shake my head over impossibly high-heeled shoes and tattered, ratty sneakers.
We had moved her into that apartment such a short time ago, with such hopes and plans for her future. Morgan had such a wonderful, rich, together life. Just devastating that someone could end it all, end her very life with his hate and depravity.
As I sift and sort Morgan’s things, some of my inner dialogue is ridiculous, even to me. I’m trying to figure out what to keep and what to discard. All feels precious because it has an association to Morgan, but it is overwhelming and not practical to keep it all. So I find myself asking, how many shirts does a dead girl need in her closet? What’s the rule of thumb/protocol for this aberrant reality we live in?
I realize there’s no rule. The gauge is me. How much is enough so that when I open her closet or drawer I can get a sense of her, but not so many empty things and NO Morgan that I am undone. It’s a delicate compromise to find just where the zone of comfort is for us. Where memory cues remind us of our precious daughter, but not so intensely that we are engulfed and drown in the loss once more.
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