Yesterday, Drew moved from a furnished house into a different, unfurnished home.
He had rented the furnished home, you see, so that he could easily and seamlessly move back into our home if we reconciled.
Now he has an empty house that needs to be filled with stuff.
Therefore, it was time for him to take the remainder of his belongings.
It was excruciatingly awful, I felt. I shouldn’t presume to have any insight into his feelings anymore, but I’m guessing it was terrible for him too. I kept thinking, “I cannot believe we’re doing this. I cannot believe this is happening.” We worked together, carrying things from the house to the car while the children played with the neighborhood kids in the front yard.
It felt like everyone was watching.
At one point, a neighbor boy said, “What are you guys doing?” Dylan answered, “My dad got a new house and he’s bringing his stuff there.” Sweetly, the boy said to Drew, “Congratulations on your new house.”
Two carloads of boxes were moved, most of them consisting of any remaining clothes and several boxes of memorabilia from his childhood.
Several boxes of childhood memorabilia. You know, like trophies, Boyscout badges, and random art projects.
Not one box of memorabilia to remember our wedding or subsequent life together.
Not one photo.
Not one souvenir item from a trip.
Not one piece of furniture that we purchased together.
Makes me wonder if I ever really existed.
–”The divorced person is like a man with a black patch over one eye: He looks rather dashing but the fact is that he has been through a maiming experience.” Jo Coudert