Home

I am home after several days away to speak at a therapeutic riding conference. But home no longer feels like home. It is a shell, a place to stay; the life of my home died when Colby did. I try to go through more of Colby's "stuff." If I sort and categorize, I think, then maybe I can clear enough space to eventually change things around, move the office into a different room, rearrange the furniture. An online grief support group friend suggested that might help, and it might. Or maybe I need the familiarity of things as they have been. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing.

I find familiar tasks. I unpack, water the tomatoes, water the indoor plants, brush the cat, try to read. I am so unfocused when I am not moving. If I stay on my feet, find things to do, then I can function. It's when I sit that I grieve. Why is that, I wonder? I also can't say Colby's name without bursting into tears. I can't talk about the loss. Last week I could, but lately, no. I find myself rocking with my arms around myself when I sit. I can't do this. I have editing projects I must finish early this week. I must learn to focus. People are counting on me and I can't let them down.