Two days after Mike died, I went back to camp. It was very early on that Saturday morning (4 a.m.) and absolutely no one was around. I spent a couple of hours that morning, wrapped in his shirts, his baseball cap on my head, crying, sleeping fitfully in the bed he died in. The following day, I went back with my kids so we could take stuff home for the winter. I haven't been back since.
Camp officially opens in 2 weeks. It was our home away from home. I don't want to give it up, but I'm afraid of the intensity. The grandkids love it there. Our friends are there.
I don't remember what we took home. I don't remember if we cleaned out cabinets. How will I feel if I find his toothbrush? How does the awning work? How does anything work? He took care of that stuff. I used to look forward to this time of year.
I'm thinking I may go back sometime this weekend. Or not.