Before Tom died, I cleaned out many of his clothes and had quilts made. Five to be exact. For Trey, I had one made from Tom’s military uniforms. For his parents and sister, quilts made from Tom’s dress shirts, ties and military uniforms. For me, shirts, ties, military uniform and the dress I wore on our first date in July 1989. I never could explain why I hauled that floral summer dress around all these years, but I found a home for it in the quilt. So when Tom passed, I had already cleaned out many of his things, but not everything. There are still some clothes left in my closet, his baseball hat hangs in my closet as well. His wallet, phone, and glasses live in my night stand and his razor still sits by the sink. I finally unplugged the razor almost a year ago, but could not bring myself to remove it. As I was getting ready and cleaning up my counter this morning, I kept looking at the razor.

Something so silly, like an eclectic razor, can bring on a flood of memories. When Trey was just a baby, and Tom would get ready for work, Tom would hold the buzzing razor in his hand and touch Trey’s little chubby cheeks with it. Trey would laugh and laugh at his silly Daddy. You know the kind of baby laugh I am talking about, full-on belly laugh!

There were times when Tom would get up and get ready for work and I would grab our coffee, and we would chat as we would get ready for work. As I sipped my coffee and put on makeup, he would sip his as he shaved. So many times, I would stop and just watch him shave. I can see it even now, how he would hold his chin or mouth as he shaved, careful not to go too fast to cut himself. He would inevitably stop and start back and ask me with those beautiful green eyes and say, ‘What”? My response was always like a swooning teenager, “Nothing, I just love you.”

Then ALS came into our lives. When Tom found it hard to turn the razor on and grab it, I would do that for him. I would place the razor between his hands and he would use both hands to shave. I started helping him shave when even holding the razor became too hard. When he became fully paralyzed, shaving him became part of my morning or evening routine. Shaving him allowed me to get close to him and whisper my “I love you’s”. It allowed us to be intimate in a different way.

The idea of the razor holds many memories for me, and yes, it is just another item that has been left behind. When do you remove these reminders of the person you loved and lost? The answer I give is the answer that is right for me, which is when your heart doesn’t ache at the thought of seeing the item gone. This morning, as I was straightening up the counter, I wiped off the razor and moved it to my bed. I will place it in a box with some of Tom’s other things that I haven’t had the strength to get rid of permanently but need to see if my heart can live without.

That’s how this widow’s life works. It seems like you are constantly testing the waters of what you can part with and what you can’t. I wonder what it will look like next year and what remaining things I will be able to part with. I have a spare bedroom stuffed with his medical stuff that needs a good culling out. The problem is, my heart just can’t do that yet, so maybe that will be next year’s goal!

All my love,

Lara