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Empty Bottles and Mismatched Socks

I think anyone whose suffers tremendous loss can say life is split in two: before and after. 
Oh, that was before.
Well, after I lost my son...
I remember because it was 5 weeks after.
I bought this dress before they died.
They never got to see this shirt.
This trip was 1 year before we lost her.
And on and on.

I've bought 5 bottles of hairspray since Enzo died. I know this because everytime I have to buy something, even as simple as deodorant, I feel like it takes me further away from the last hug, the last time I saw him. I desperately want to hold on to everything I had when he was alive as a way of holding onto him. I guess I can understand why some people start hoarding after tragedy. 
It's stupid stuff. Shampoo bottles. My razor. Shoes. Eyeliner. Everything I own is split into one of two places: before or after. 

Yet, the things that should be more meaningful and sentimental, I can't bring myself to look at. Like the socks I bought for him that he had in his suitcase when he died: those damn socks he made sure to pack. They don't match. One is a picture of him and I (yes, our picture on the socks) that says "Mom's Favorite." 
Each of my kids got a pair for Christmas that year. And the other sock is a THC leaf. I bought those for him when I went to Vegas. He loved them. I can't wear them. 
I can't wear the scarf,  either. The scarf he wore all winter a couple years ago. He looked so dapper! 

I can't wear the beanie he worked in. Not just because I look awful in it, either. 

But the useless shit, I want to keep. The couch he slept on that our dogs have destroyed. The old chair that had a dead mouse in it (that's a whole story!). The blanket he used every time he came over that's itchy and uncomfortable. Even my truck. I never want to let go of these things. I'll drive that fucking truck into the ground because it's the last place we were together. That last picture. The moment he said "what if I never see you again" happened in that truck. If I could, I would park my truck and only drive it on special occasions. 
Because... what if something happens to my truck? What if something happens to the last place I was with my son? We had some incredible conversations in my truck.

It's weird how grief affects you. I would never have thought "I can sympathize with hoarders." But here I am, writing about how I want to save every teeny item I owned before my son died. 

I'm not keeping these things. I'm throwing things out when it's time, but I sure do hesitate. I stand there for several seconds before I let that empty bottle of hairspray fall to the trash. 
I stare at the body wash, knowing I've bought 4 bottles since he died and this one is almost empty. That will make 5 bottles of body wash since he died. Each bottle represents that much more time since I've heard my son say "I love you." Or got a text from him. Or saw his face; heard his laugh.  

I'm learning to put things in their proper place. Empty bottles go in the trash. That old chair with the mouse story behind it, I watched as it was demolished at the city dump. 
The couch is still there for now. 
Even my grief. There isn't room for it everywhere. The proper place for that is counseling, the support group I attend, and here on my blog. While I don't try to hide my loss, I'm also not leaving a trail of devastated people behind me after I share my experience. 

Everything has it's place.  
But maybe I keep just one empty bottle for now. I'll let go when I'm ready. And I might never reach ready.

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