I hadn't been back to the tri-level home my sister once shared with her husband and cat, for two years. The last time I was in Idaho was three months after she died from breast cancer. I took that trip with my mom and cousin to help Ronnie's husband pack her personal belongings. It pretty much took the wind out of me.
The truth is, I was afraid to go back. Afraid of feelings it might evoke. Afraid that everywhere I'd look I'd see images of her death. The oxygen tank in the corner of the room; the bathroom where I hid when they came to take her body; watching my mom meet my Dad in the driveway to tell him Ronnie was already gone after he drove 11 hours to tell her goodbye.
But I went back for my brother in law who always makes an effort to come see us. The fourth of July is a special holiday in our family, one we always spent with Ronnie and Donn. So our family of seven flew to Idaho, this year with my sister Morgan's family in tow.
I cried a lot at first. From the moment I walked into the door and climbed the stairs to make my way into the spare bedroom. My husband found me and enveloped me in his arms. Had I hoped she'd come down the stairs with that dimpled smiled to greet me? Our faces were wet with tears and we didn't speak. What is there to say? This is my sister's house, but she doesn't live here anymore.
You can rid a home of someone's clothes and toiletries and make sure that special mementos are given to specific people as a remembrance, but it doesn't take persons presence from a home. Everything is just the way she left it. The cat that adored her still lays in the entryway like Queen Sheba meowing for treats. (Picture a cross between Garfield and Zsa Zsa Gabor in black and white fur.)
Looking out of the kitchen window I was amazed how the tree's they picked out together have grown, a visual reminder of the passing of time. Not to mention how the nieces and nephews she treasured have grown in that time.
On the way to river rafting one day, my brother in law reminded me that I need to accept that life moves on. I tell him he might want to remove Ronnie's urn from the mantle, especially if he decides to date. And maybe the anniversary plate I gave them with their names and wedding date that's on the kitchen counter. Any woman worth her salt can sense another woman's presence. The only room that doesn't have Ronnie stamped all over it is his den, and even that has a plaque that says “An old fisherman lives here with the catch of his life.”
“So do you think I should start redecorating now, perhaps a NASCAR theme?” he asks with a grin. He teases me, but in a tender way. I tell him I think he should sell the house and move by us. I even offer to sign a contract that I won't ask him to baby-sit. He offers to baby-sit.
The house and cat aren't quite as tidy as they once were, further evidence that she's gone. (She used to bathe and blow dry her hefty cat; no joke.) There's still a feminine presence, but I bemoaned the fact that the house doesn't smell like her anymore. I longed to run up to her closet and bury myself in her clothes. To breathe in her scent, a mixture of hairspray and perfume. But her clothes have been gone for two years.
The Bible says God ordains all our days and knows our end from the beginning. So who am I to continually accuse that He took Ronnie too soon?
I'm glad I went back. The last stage of grief is acceptance. Since I can't see her or hear her voice, it was kind of nice to curl up on a couch she picked out and know this was once a special corner of her world.
Love is stronger than death, our bodies are merely tents and heaven is our real home. Ronnie's been home two years now.
