Spring cleaning.

It's a difficult thing to place memories and feelings and emotions and thoughts in a box and give it away.

But I attempted that today.

It began with last night, with a mental itch that wouldn't let me sleep until I'd scratched it.  The idea that his identity was stamped all over this room, though he's never set foot in it.

There on the table was the bracelet he'd made, the necklace his mother had given me.  In the dresser was the sweatshirt he'd outgrown that drowned me.  By the window was the bank information from the week I'd opened an account with his bank.  (I closed that down weeks ago.)

In the corner was the motherlode, laundry baskets of old clothes and books he'd left at his old house.  I'd gone on his behalf to collect him, back in the early days when being called someone's fiancée still made me blink and want to look over my shoulder.  I never really got used to that label.

Some things would have made sense to keep.  Some didn't, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them just yet.  But I went through the majority; the books, the papers, the photos on my laptop.  The video we made.  A few pictures were difficult to erase.  I'll admit, I left a few.  (Particularly the pictures of missionaries in his zone when they were at the Provo temple.  When I looked closely I could see people in my district in the background.  I couldn't ever see me, though.  Maybe that's more telling than I thought.  Maybe I'm just looking for meaning in the meaningless.)

Some things of mine were associated with him.  I put them out of sight, hid them in cupboards until it doesn't hurt to look at them anymore.  Mumford & Sons have been tainted by association.  What a pity.

I went through my voicemail.  He'd left messages of love that I'd kept, and as sick as it seemed, I wanted to hear them again.  They'd expired, disappeared of their own accord.  I guess that's best.

I loaded my car late last night with the vestiges of his physical presence... the ones I could bring myself to part with, at least.  Drove to the donation center by my work this afternoon.  The volunteer seemed surprised that I didn't want to keep the laundry baskets I'd packed them in.  I just didn't want any more reminders.