Hefting a laundry basket full of his clothes into the truck, and it hit me: you never had to do this for me.

 It was almost six months to the day, the day Wally died, that I woke up one morning and decided it was time to clean out his drawers, empty out his closet. I suspect I’ve waited longer than most, but have no idea what the norm is. Some people want every sign of their deceased spouse gone, as the very sight of their things is painful. I’m more on the side of finding comfort in his shoes lined up where he left them, the shirt he wore last, hanging on the bedpost.

 One woman I know repainted their bedroom barely a day after her husband died. Now I’m recalling another widow I knew years ago who happily chose lively shades of lavender and purple for her bedroom, reclaiming her life after years of a, shall we say, contentious marriage. I’ve done a bit of that myself, though our disagreements were mild by comparison, finally turning our corn and bean patch into an intricate maze of raised beds, something I’ve dreamed of for years.

 The clothes were hard. Our, no – my – bedroom was beginning to resemble a memorial: shoes lined up, dresser top still littered with his glasses, loose change, pocket knife, bottle of Tylenol, and of course, the shirt on the bedpost. My eyes have opened each morning to the world as it was when we actually inhabited it together. Now that he no longer does, why am I leaving the bedtime note I once wrote him years ago still hanging from the lampshade on his side of the bed where he saved it that long ago night? The clothes seemed a good place to start.

 To be honest, I’ve only moved out half of them, what would fit in that one laundry basket. The underwear and socks went into the trash as Goodwill doesn’t take those. I’m waiting for inspiration on the hand knitted things, socks and sweaters. His favorite hat walked out of here on his son’s head the day of the funeral. So did a favorite shirt on the back of another son. Still a third lifted his raincoat right off its hook just the other day.

 You’d think that with three sons there’d be a ready market for all those shirts and pants, vests and jackets, but actually none of those four men wear/wore the same size. The one who came closest to him lives in Switzerland now, so there’s no passing stuff off to him.

 I woke in the night thinking that of course I’d make a rug out of the shirts. He’d woven so many over the years, rugs made with somebody’s loved one’s clothes. I doubt he’d ever realized his would end up that way, nor did I. So every evening, with my glass of wine and the nightly news I snip away the sleeves, the collar, the cuffs on a shirt, one shirt a night, then into the 2-inch-wide strips he wove with, and wind them into balls; each shirt makes two balls. When all his shirts have been turned into balls I’ll weave a rug for me.

 For months, I realize, I’ve been trying to keep him alive, or rather, to keep alive our life together. Our conversation, the little inside jokes we shared that needed no articulating, our mutual worries and pride in our sons’ lives, in our grandchildren. I’ve kept repeating “I can’t hear him, can’t see him.” I’ve said it in these writings, said it to myself, to anyone who’d listen. Why can’t I hear him?

Because he’s dead, that’s why. This revelation has only recently sunk in. Let him go. Our life together is over, in the past, in memory only. And I’m coming to see that’s not a bad revelation to come to.

 “They” (all the books on grieving), tell you that eventually your loved one will become a warm memory to sustain you, not the raw wound you’re actually experiencing.

That sounded too unlikely in the early months, but maybe they’re right. It’s not so different from falling in love when your every waking hour is consumed with thoughts of him or her. Rather than the numbness of grief, though, there’s a hyper awareness of the other that blocks out everything else, a kind of selective numbness. Think of birds in spring, so crazily intent on winning a mate that they fly smack into cars, into windows.

Falling in love, if it lasts, generally morphs into the mundane day-to-day, until it’s hard to even imagine the intensity of those early days. And that’s not a bad thing, for if we’re lucky, it deepens to become the foundation of our lives, a good marriage. And after all, isn’t grieving all about love?

If I could put a name to it, to what’s had me puzzled these past months, it would be just that: the puzzle of death. Although I’ve lost many loved ones through the years – and what 73 year-old hasn’t? – this is the first one that’s mattered in such a visceral, elemental way. I can’t look away from it, pretend life goes on as it always has. He’s everywhere and always with me and at the same time, I feel his absence every minute.

 In the first weeks after he died, when I seemed to have no feelings left, before the tears started, the idea that we were on a journey together, me following him on his, made sense. It explained the feeling of not being present here, of numbness, of forgetfulness. I actually have felt far away these past months, disconnected from those around me.

 I recently came upon the Greek legend of Orpheus traveling to the underworld to retrieve his lover, Eurydice, told as a cautionary tale for any who would try to follow their dead. Eurydice was allowed to return with Orpheus on the condition that he not look back at her until both had come to the upper world. But he disobeyed and turned around to look at her as soon as he reached that upper world, forgetting that both needed to be there. This time she vanished forever.

The annual Blueberry Wingding, sponsored by the Lincolnville Improvement Association, will be held Saturday, August 12 at McLaughlin’s Restaurant on the Ferry Road. Blueberry pancakes along with bacon or sausage, juice and coffee will be served from 7– 10:30 a.m.

Jay started it: “Ok sleuths, here's one for you. The other night, 2 a.m., I heard this out back, quite near the house. I went out and there was - nothing!  I thought I was looking for an animal but nothing to be found.  At one point I thought the noise was up a tree.  Once I came back inside it resumed.  I've been given some suggestions as to what I was listening to, but haven't nailed it so far.”

 From Alleson: “Porcupine chatter!”

 Doug: “Definitely a porcupine.”

 Pam: “The scream of a fox.”

 Dave: “Definitely a porcupine.”

 Corelyn: “I tried to solve this mystery the other day and thought of both coon and porcupine so I listened to both calls online… The porcupines there sounded nothing like Jay's and the coons were closer but not exact. So, I am still not sure.”

 Enzo: “Definitely a politician.” )

 Liz: “LOL”

 Laura: “Listen to the rabbit on the link below.”