Member-only story
The Move
Dealing with death
Closing papers for our townhome were signed on Thursday, June 1, 2017.
That afternoon, Ben, my friend Anita, my daughter, the grandkids, and I transported boxes to our new place. The movers came on Friday. After the furniture was in place, Ben and I moved the pets — our dogs, Chanelito and Pooh; our cat, Tango; and our guinea pigs, Jolly and Mauricio — and more boxes. Friday night, we slept in our new home.
The grandkids spent the weekend with us. We listened to Beatles music and danced as we unpacked boxes. Ben made ribs, mashed potatoes, and salad for dinner on Saturday night. We had ice cream for dessert.
The house overflowed with conversation, music, and laughter. It was full of life energy.
Now, only Tango and I remain of the original group. Pooh, gone in 2018. The grandchildren moved in 2018. Chanelito, gone in 2019. Jolly and Mauricio, gone in 2020, along with Sophie, a dog we adopted in 2018. Ben, gone in 2024.
Now, it’s silent.
I put on music, but I know I'm trying to fool myself into thinking I'm not alone in silence. It’s fake. I know it’s fake. It doesn’t work.
When Ben was alive, we celebrated on June 1st each year. Last year, the moving date was so close to the time of Ben’s death that I didn’t remember it. This year, I certainly did not celebrate, but I was flooded with memories.
Many tears fell.
Tears for all the missing lives.
Tears for the emptiness and silence.
Tears for the life I once had.
© 2025
