Continuing to work on projects that Steve and I started together has been both a blessing and a curse these last few months.

On the one hand, it is gratifying to see a few things across the goal line and bring some order to the chaos.

On the other hand, everything is a hollow victory at this point.

While I still have a long, long list of things that need to be accomplished, I gave myself permission to take the month of December off from projects.

It seems that every weekend has some major holiday festivity going on, whether it’s a formal dance or a holiday party or a performance of some sort. If we’re not indulging in that kind of activity, it seems we will be at a wrestling tournament or a swim meet, and then before you know it, Christmas will be here.

On top of that, I’ve finished most of the work that I can handle and to move in other directions is probably going to require professional help, which has been hard to come by.

December seemed like a good time to stop and regroup and re-prioritize. But, before December arrived, I had one project that I needed to see through.

I have been struggling with what to do with Steve’s things. Steve had a lot of things. From the books that piqued his interest about whatever hobby he was pursuing, to all the gadgets and equipment needed to pursue that hobby, to whatever the outcome of the hobby was, the stuff is everywhere.

For example, the dogs. Aside from the dogs themselves, and their crates, and their toys, and their food and water dishes, and all their grooming supplies, and their training collars, and tracking collars, and the decoys, and the gear bags, well, I have a closet and a half full of things.

Now, the dogs aren’t going anywhere, but I’m still at the very rudimentary levels of training and the gear I need fits comfortably into a small bag.

Steve left cases full of envelopes full of giant pumpkin seeds that he both grew and scoured the internet to buy. They are all carefully packed and preserved, at the ready to plant. Then there is his hunting gear, for all seasons, all weather, all terrains. The camping gear. Boots for every conceivable condition. All of it in relatively good, if not near mint, condition.

For the first few months, we were reluctant to move anything. His knee-high hunting shoes stayed right on the dryer next to the wood stove, where he’d last taken them off. I think all of us held on to the hope that he’d come striding back in, sit down, and lace them up. But, eventually, we had to deal with reality, and start to pack things up.

The kids gradually absorbed some of his items, whether they put them to active use, like G did with a lot of his hunting clothes, even though they’re a bit baggy on him, or cuddling up in an old sweatshirt like E does when she needs a reminder of her Dad.

But, there was still a lot of other stuff to deal with, and since I had nowhere else to go with it, it all sort of made its way into our bedroom.

I tried to keep a reasonable order to things, but then one night, Duncan managed to extricate himself from his crate, and without damaging anything, managed to excavate every pile and empty out every bin that I had been trying to maintain order with, and wow, what a mess.

While I can only imagine what was going through poor Duncan’s mind as he maybe thought he had one last chance to find Steve, a lot more than that went through my mind as I realized I was going to have to come to terms with figuring out a better way to preserve these precious items.

I realized, as I looked around at the sheer volume of Steve things everywhere that trying to get rest and relax in our bedroom, when it was essentially a shrine to all things Steve and a constant reminder of absolutely everything that we’d lost, was not happening.

A review of my sleep tracker on my smart phone confirmed what I was already suspecting. My supposed sleeping hours were some of my most restless.

So, even though it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, I decided to reclaim our bedroom and make it into my bedroom.

Steve and I had moved back into “my room” when we moved to the farm, and I felt a little like a teenager, picking out new bedding, painting over my old furniture. And, I couldn’t erase him completely. His most treasured books are still on the bookshelf next to the bed that he’d used as a nightstand.

Although we had previously shared the two closets in the room, I decided to claim one as my own, and move all his things neatly into the other one, accessible any time I wanted them, but also not constantly in my face reminding me that he was never coming back for them.

The first night that I tried to sleep in the white and brass bed I’d wanted since I was in high school, but which had always been out of the question because Steve was too tall to ever sleep in a bed with a footboard, I couldn’t. It was strange and overwhelmingly empty.

So, the obvious answer was to fill up the space with a few more decorative pillows, which Steve would have hated. The walls are still painted the blue that he picked out, and the desk that he set up to work at during the pandemic is still here, but now it’s got my laptop and pictures of happier times covering it.

It felt like the right time and the right way to find a measure of peace to get through these next few weeks: a room with a view, to the future, and a nod to the past.