In 56 hours, I will do the final walk through and hand over the keys to my house.
In 57 hours, we will likely be driving our stuff in a big-assed truck towards my new home.
In 56 hours, we will no longer be residents of Squamish.
There is a certain type of grief that comes with leaving your home of 8 years. Leaving the home where your children grew up. Leaving the home where you were building a life with your deceased husband. The home where he got sick. The home you went back to after he died. The home you started to heal in.
The grief isn’t the soul-crushing, bone crushing, heart-wrenching kind of grief that came with his death.
It’s a softer grief. One that just pokes at the bruises in your heart. Over and over and over.
Despite the excitement of a new home, of a new town, of new adventures, the grief continues to poke incessantly at the bruised and healing parts of my heart.
I will miss my home, my job, my town, my mountains. I will miss my friends. I will miss my routine, my new normal that I’ve created after his death.
Change happens. Change is inevitable. Change is scary and painful and exciting and amazing.
Life is good. Life was good before he died, and life has become good again.
But as with all endings, there is a certain kind of grief.