Just writing about the lose is making my heart race mostly because it's like peeling a band-aid off a large gaping wound. Always there because there is no cure, no treatment that can ever make it go away. Always dealing with it. It took a long time before I even had the courage to write about Trent. A phase.
Saturday, my husband and I began a conversation that I thought I would never have since the day we lost Trent.
It all started when we tossed around some ideas of home improvements. Then it shifted to talk about Trent's bedroom. Should we open it up to give us more living room and dinning space? Should we open part of it up and make part of it into a spare room to keep his things in? Should we box up Trent's belongings? Should we just leave it as is?
My heart dropped!
Brad said, "It's not like he's going to come home."
"I know." I reply.
Brad said, "Weill, I'm comfortable too just like we are. Do we really need more room?"
When Trent passed away, NO ONE was allowed to touch his bedroom. My well meaning sister began to clean his room and I thought I was going to blow a cork. How dare she touch Trent's stuff as if, now that he was gone that his belongings should be packed up where no one has to look at them. It wasn't her fault she really had no idea and frankly I hoped she never could understand. His room probably looked like any other typical 15 year old, trashed! But it still smelled like him and it looked like he would come home any moment. The night he was killed his lamp was on and I left it on until it burned out a few years later. That was a depressing day. Another phase.
Two years after his accident I finally could bring myself to clean it. Another phase. My husband couldn't help so it was up to me. While cleaning I buried my head in his clothes hoping to smell his scent of cologne or Axe bodywash that he liked but it was faded away. I kept everything, throwing nothing away, scraps of paper, unfinished class assignments, electronics, well ANYTHING! I just tidied it up. When it was done I accepted that it would have to be different. Another phase.
His room is in the most difficult spot in the house. Everyone has no choice but to walk by it to go into the kitchen or family room. With the door open you can look in to see that it is still decorated as Trent had it. I purposely did that. A closed door meant that I was ok with moving on and forgetting that Trent was ever part of us. I was not ok with forgetting. Stop sign on the wall, posters of snowmobiles and farm equipment, farm toys displayed, his backpack hanging on a hook, deer head , ball caps hanging from the antlers. Some walk by quickly, some look in, some don't even notice or chose not to. I am sure thinking that we can't accept or move on.
A few years ago my daughter got married and with that came two step-children and we needed a place to hold the toys for them to play with when they came over. Another phase. Now, that our daughter's family is bigger more room on the main floor would be nice but could I handle the change?
It's not the same nor will it ever be because Trent's not ever coming to our home he has a new home.
I often sit in there when I miss him. Just looking around. Thinking. Wishing.