His Room

At my house he has a room. At his parents house he has a room. At MyFella's house he has a room. Our homes, his rooms. I can leave the door open, I just can't go in. My husband leaves the door closed. Open, closed, doesn't really matter. He's never coming home. He's never coming back. I have a closet filled with his clothes. A dresser with drawers filled with his clothes. He will not wear them again. I can't go in the room without having a breakdown. It's easier and less painful to leave the door open and walk past it. It's easier and less painful to leave the clothes. Friday night we went into his room to look for a blanket. It would have been easier to have bought a new blanket. Saturday we dusted and swept the floor. I changed the bed linens so visitors can have fresh linens. The first time I changed the linens I called a friend to come help me. Those linens are folded in a bag, tucked in a cedar closet. He slept on them. I cried. I cry all the time.