What am I trying to prove?

My latest version of grief therapy brought up a topic recently. Am I still trying to prove my love for MyJamie? Is all this some version of not giving up my grief, my pain, my griefbursts and crying, to continue to prove how I love him? Am I proving this to me? To him? To who? Am I afraid if I stop crying then it means it's over? That's all I have left, is grief. A closet full of clothes. A little over a thousand snapshots on a Google album. One or two short videos. I catch myself looking over my right shoulder to see him sitting in my car, over my left shoulder for my husband's car. I catch myself looking down the garden path towards his parent's house to see him walking to their house, his lunch box waving in his hand. Memories and grief are what I have left. If I give one up, then what have I left to give? I couldn't count the days if I tried of all the things and times that I did for him, that I considered his involvement, that I did what I thought was good for him. Restaurant choices, my home choice, my automobile purchase, what time I would and wouldn't leave a place, where we would go and how we would go, just to consider that he would be involved and comfortable and enjoy the experience. So what is left there to do, if not to cry. I'm going to stop mowing the grave. I'm thinking that I realize now that mowing his grave has very little to do with him. He does not know, he does not care. So it must be for me, right? Me trying to prove that I still miss him, that I still think of him. It's enough, isn't it, that I can't leave Eddie's house without passing the cemetery. That I can't drive to Eddie's house without passing the cemetery. That I bought my grave plots to be right next to him, by their father. I can not go in his bedroom for longer than a moment without a grief breakdown. One of my therapists calles them grief bursts. Two weekends ago at Eddie's I made the mistake of looking for something in his bedroom and I had a horrible breakdown. The absence, the quiet, the change. It's so horrifyingly lonely. But I suppose I can try again to pack it into it's appropriate place. I don't have to go into the room, not often anyway. But I can stop myself from packing a lawnmower into the back of the truck to mow the cemetery as if it were my backyard. I will consider some more which of my actions might be misguided attempts to prove my love, when none is needed. I don't need their mother to acknowledge it, I don't even need my husband to acknowledge what he knows and understands. It was with him that I built this life. MyJamie knew it so well. All our days, our countless days that came to an end of counting. He knew he was loved, he knew he was adored and he knew that I made choices to be with him, to take care of him, to take care for him. I'm going to try to stop proving it now.