Well. That Wasn't The Plan

I have to move house. I’ve made peace with this eleven times this month. It doesn’t seem to be sticking.

The problem is grief parks itself in the walls. In the light through a particular window. In the spot on the couch where he always sat. I will probably always look for him in this house. I will probably look for him in the next one too. This is not something I’m trying to fix because quite honestly – I don’t want to.

And here’s the thing about my husband. He’s not limited by real estate.

He turns up in number plates, songs on the radio, and flickering lights when I ask if he’s around. He is, if anything, harder to get rid of now than when he was alive. I mean that as the highest possible compliment.

This Easter I placed my supermarket order online. At checkout the website recommended products I may have previously purchased. I scrolled through without really looking.

Top of the list was his hot sauce.

Four years. It’s never recommended once in four years. There it was.

I laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again.

He came to Easter. He announced himself via a Woolworths algorithm. This is completely on brand.

So, I know he’ll find the new address. I know he’ll turn up in the walls eventually, in the light through a new window, in whatever spot on whatever couch I end up with. I know all of this.

I’m still not ready to go.

But I’m going anyway. Eleven attempts at making peace and counting.

Energy can’t be destroyed. It’s true. I looked it up. He’s not going anywhere.

He’ll find the new address.

Because I know he’ll never leave me.