Presence

Monday 18 June morning

Lara has now spent three days in a cooling unit, which fortunately she had almost to herself - a comforting thought somehow. This morning she was transferred to a "collection point", where various Brussels undertakers take the mortal remains of those scheduled for cremation the next day, such as Lara's. 

I had to really try not to think too often of her circumstances over the past weekend. Strange how you don't want to forget about them altogether, for that would show lack of sympathy. Yet on the other hand I have thought about her so much, these past days, that I don't have to feel in the least bit guilty about not picturing my loved one in the confines of a shroud, inside a coffin, locked in a dark refrigeration room inside a deserted building without character.

I decided I needed to break out of the house, get away from too many memory triggers. Saturday, around noon, I set out for Rotterdam, where I plannend to stay overnight with my old friend Gert-Jan. The two hour drive made it easy to muse and ponder about my loss, and I would explode into sobs from time to time. My vision blurred by tears, I had to try and keep my place on the road, and that sort of thing quickly brings you back to the here and now.

Passing time with my old buddy and Ellen, his partner, was positively soothing, mostly because we stayed home all of the time, without constraints or protocol, listening to music, watching TV, ordering in a meal and lots of talking in between. We talked about Lara, too, and even that felt good.

I was back in the early evening, Sunday. On the way back, sobbing spells were less than on the way over, but I was positively desolate at the prospect of not finding her at home, as I would arrive. Not temporarily absent (for that had been the case before, even over longer spells, such as when she was stationed in Bosnia or posted in New York). No, structurally absent, for ever and ever; not coming back, ever. It is more than saddening; it is inconceivable.

Right now being in the apartment is excruciating, for everything here serves as a memory aid, triggering countless recollections: from her bathroom to her wardrobe, from her office to the kitchen. This morning, for breakfast, I polished off some chopped apple the nurses had prepared for her last week. In the freezer I detected a small cannister of soup Lara had prepared for me before she turned into the hospital, in March. I look left and see her hospital bed still standing there waiting to be picked up later this morning. I look straight ahead as I write and I see candles she personally used to pick out with care, in time with the occasion and the season. Lara took great pride in a presentable home. The whole interior breathes her presence - without her being there. I walk from room to room and I see her everywhere - but I find her not.

I am not going to turn this house into a museum, much less a mausoleum, even though I feel honor-bound to maintain a style and taste she brought to our home twenty years ago. But I will take my time to weed out her stuff, no rush. It would be easy to summon twenty big garbage bags and put everything inside for further disposition. But what to do with her wardrobe? Not the kind of clothes suitable for doling out to Brussels' needy. Besides, many many pieces bring back memories of events or periods in our twenty years together, and I wish to relive them as part of grieving.

Countless messages (to which I still have to reply) have reached me in response to Lara's demise and the announcement that was sent around. They helped a great deal to alleviate the pain. They made clear that I was not the only one grieving, including people who had barely known Lara but had gotten to know her through this writing.

What really touched me deeply over the past days and weeks, however, were comments from close friends of Lara's, or siblings, saying how Lara had been a unhappy person before she got to know me and over the past fifteen years had grown into a happy one. I never saw it in her, for my own happiness kept apace with hers. And how Lara had been a person low on trust before we ever met; and how she'd had complete trust in her husband. Greater soulagement I could not ask for. Even as I write these words I cannot contain myself.