Things

I've been "messing" with Peter's stuff. He left me a whole bunch of things. I've been able to face some of it. For instance, for some reason I was able to give (most) of his clothes away soon after his death. Hard to do. Those tennis shoes that he wore into the hospital, and I took to the car? Those were hard to give away. Peter was a collector. I have my stuff, too. But you know how it is. When you're with someone, they have "junk" and you have "projects." All in the perspective. Here I was attempting to deal with the overflow of the kitchen. I finally laid out all of the wooden implements, and put the repeats in a box. No, I didn't get rid of them, but they are not in the kitchen anymore.

And here are some of his cookbooks. A lot of cookbooks. At least 400. They are taking up a bunch of space in the dining room. I tried to deal with them once, putting them in boxes, and I called Peter's sister and started crying. She said I didn't have to do anything, and so I didn't. They bring me comfort. I still wonder what to do with them, or when I could possibly do something with them, but I'm just not going to right now. Touching those pages, with the little markers, the spattered stains of food, the favorites, makes me smile.

And then there's my own trouble. Hmmm. I thought I should go through some of my own books this weekend. "Never pull out more than you can put back in an hour." Ha. That regulation is for sissies. Well, maybe that would have been a good idea. I look at the books; some Peter had given me, some from other friends, some from my grandparents. Peter built me that bookcase, and I treasure it. It is in our bedroom, and I love to curl up on the little couch in the mornings and read or write in my journal. "Transcribing," Peter used to call it.

I wonder with all of this "messing about" I am trying to find myself amidst this disequilibrium of Peter's departure from this earth? I seem to be stirring things up quite a bit; looking, looking. Trying to make sense of what is, and who I am without Peter.