Yesterday after work, I visited Ian’s house for the last time. I didn’t go in. Even if I’d been able to, I wouldn’t have. It doesn’t smell like him anymore. Doesn’t look like his place anymore. I did sit out front for a while, looking in the window, and remembering the myriad times I’d drive up and look in, to see him standing in front of his TV, playing his Rock Band guitar. Or just seeing the TV going, him lying on the couch watching it.
I got the couch last night. It still smells of him… of his house. Thanks to an amazing friend who was able to help me move it at the last minute, it’s now sitting in my living room. My cat was slightly undecided on whether she was ok with it.
It was difficult for me, driving to his house. I have avoided even driving on the road that I would take to get there, much less actually going there. Taking those turns, remembering the countless times I’d done so before, so happily, because I was going to see him, to have fun, to get drunk and sing and talk and listen to music.
I still miss him terribly, every day. Every minute. But I’m getting better. There’s still a really long way to go, but I’ve progressed toward healing some. That is a relief, in a way. It proves that there IS hope.
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