Acclimation

I grapple with the fact that while his memory is a blur, it is for the best—no old memories haunting my new walls.

Bereavement was over, a new routine born. The only constant was my job—all else that had defined my life had been replaced. I sat at the dining table, laptop screen casting blue light across my face, while the contractor danced around me to erase all remnants of the past homeowner. White paint swallowed every surface, a necessary fresh start.

I didn’t have much for the house. I’d left behind every relic Steve had made, along with our marital bed—where I’d slept beside a stranger for years. I lined the shelves with odds and ends, claiming ownership of my new life through the careful placement of my few possessions. I spent my first night on an air mattress in the living room, tangled in cast-off sheets, falling asleep to dreams of new rituals that might move me forward.