Diary of a Widower

Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons

My wife in a moving box

FRIDAY, May 7 – Had a rotten night. Woke up a few times, dreaming of Jennifer. Tossed and turned, wishing the move to our new house was over.  Delays due to a snag:  the oil used on the wooden floors was spoiled, leading to white spots. Now they have to sand, oil, varnish, polish and then varnish again. At least I think that’s the right order.

What do I care? By Sunday evening the floor will be perfect. Here’s hoping. The movers are coming early Monday morning and by the end of the day we’ll take possession of our new abode, two streets away. I’m dreading the whole operation, but trying desperately not to lose my cool.  I’m tired. So tired. Even too tired to worry.

Tonight I’ll pack a small box with personal things. In other words: Jenn in da box. Weird… I walk around with the box in my hand. (Do you want me to put you down here, sweetheart?)  Relax. Fucking urn.  Shoved into a cardboard moving box without a single token of respect. The movers better keep their hands off my sweetheart.

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