Disappearance, bit by bit

Loss is slow

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2, the villains Voldemort and Bellatrix are killed in the final battle. The way their bodies dissolve has stuck with me. They fleck away gradually, small piece by small piece, until the wind carries their dust away.

Obviously, my wife Andrea was no villain, and she died quickly and peacefully. Yet, the image has carried over to my loss of her.

The continual flaking away of her presence has become a steady gray drizzle backdrop to my life. The torrential, drowning storm of grief has mostly subsided (with the exception of sudden squalls). I have, with my friends and family, put away the tents and umbrellas, and pointed out to each other the “Jacob’s ladders” of sun that break through.

I have worn and washed all the socks that she folded and tucked into neat rectangles. I tossed the corn meal she had bought in her one attempt to make English muffins from scratch. Fred Friendly, the neighborhood cat she befriended, is living his best life in Fort Greene. I have given up the house phone number we shared.

There are still pieces to deal with—her clothing, guitars, the sharps containers from her medication, mailing lists to remove, the hard drive from her computer to keep reviewing, all the liquids and paint in the garage. Everyone has continually reassured me that “I have all the time in the world.” Not really, but there is indeed no deadline for these things.

I also know, at 61 1/2, that I am on the downhill run. I have started to toss things that I have little emotional response to, so that no one will have a pile of “stuff” to tackle. I am careful about what I get rid of, so that I don’t wind up living a really long time and missing memories. Every so often I kick myself for having gotten rid of film cameras I would love to have now. “Shoulda coulda woulda”—ah, well.

I am flaking away, myself—but still regenerating, and grateful for the capacity and the assistance of family and friends.