One of the hardest things I’ve done related to my husband’s death was moving the second time. Most of my things were moved shortly after purchasing my new home, but the rest came after our house sold, more than a year later. I arrived the evening before the rental truck and friends came, since I had some packing to do. I wasn’t prepared for the crushing, incapacitating, silence and forgot that most of what was left was my husband’s. Alone was something I avoided, if at all possible, since his death so I don’t know what possessed me to spend the night there. I should have guessed what it would be like – no television or music to occupy my thoughts, and barren rooms, hollow and cold. Everywhere I went, there was no life. I hated this place now, every inch no longer resembling what it was when we shared a life there together. I had a job to do so I went. I needed the closure, cutting the threads to that house, to that life, to the old me, but not to him because I took him with me, still present in my new home, new life, new me.