He's left the building

It was over before I knew it. He picked the truck up at 11, loaded it, and said good-bye at 2. He got very emotional when he was saying his good-byes, and I thought, for a moment, I was going to cry. Mostly a knee-jerk reaction to another's tears--like Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias, I have a strict policy about no one crying alone in my presence. I "womanned up," however, and stayed strong. Well, one benefit of things getting so bad the past few years is that I was less likely to dissolve in a puddle of sentiment, right? He said a lot of sweet things to me, but I couldn't help thinking, "Too little, too late." I'll give him credit for this: He taught me to pay more attention to actions. That's one lesson I won't have to learn again and again and again, as I have with so many other lessons.

Strange that there are so few reminders of him left. He slept mostly in the guest room, so there won't be any noticeable absence when I go to bed at night. Some dust bunnies and a few pieces of furniture in the art room that he didn't have room for--and that's about it. Don't most people leave more of a physical imprint? I feel as though I've been living with the chalk outline of a person, and a strong wind just blew the outline away. I can still see a faint ghost of it, but one hard rain, and even that will disappear.