She's not coming home...

My sister and I have been going to my Mother's apartment since her passing for obvious reasons.

The first time we went, I was a ball of anxiety. My chest tightened even at the thought of walking through her front door. I was terrified about what it would look like; the condition of the place; the smell; what we would discover; the skeletons in her closet, literally.

When we arrived, the door swung open and a sense of relief came over me. My shoulders relaxed. The anxiety lifted from seeing how she was living, as I always remember her being, cute and clean. It smelled like Mom. It looked bright like her smile and that made me smile.

Then, I was swarmed with grief and guilt. This was the first time I was welcomed into her apartment... by a dude who worked at the front office of her apartment building. I wasn't let in by my Mother's excited face, knowing her daughters were visiting her. The first time I was stepping foot in her home was because she had passed away. We were there because we needed to go through all of her belongings and clean everything up. How awful is that? It drained me.

After that visit, I knew we would have to go back. There was just so much to go through. But would the next time be easier? No. We've been three times now. It's never easier. Every time, it gets emptier, quieter, and darker.

Her smell isn't there anymore. They've turned the electricity off. We've donated all of her furniture that we didn't take ourselves. The pictures are off the walls. Her clothes are off the hangers. She's gone. 

Britney and I have joked about how it's our clubhouse because we've had to go back so many times. Honestly, it feels like it is. It's been troubling but it's also been healing. I feel her there. I enjoy being surrounded by all of her things. The next time we go, it will be our last time there... and it's hitting me.

A part of me wants it to be over so we can grieve, move on, and heal. The other part of me doesn't want to let go. The next time we shut her door and go home, will be our last goodbye.

She's been gone almost three months now... three months tomorrow, actually, but being enveloped in all of her things and having to take care of everything in the background after her death, it's felt like she's still  alive.

This feels final. It feels permanent. She won't be coming home. I miss her. I'll miss our clubhouse.

I love you, Mom. Thanks for the memories that I'll cherish for the rest of my days. Until we meet again...