Small things can be hard things

I had to finish packing his room.

For 6 months, I’ve been able to just close the door and pretend. He always kept the door closed anyway. So I could close the door and just pretend that he’s at work. Or sleeping after a night shift. Or at his dad’s house. Or out with friends.

I mean, I’m not fucking delusional. It’s not like I *actually* pretend those things. It’s more that I could close the door and not deal with what was behind it. Obviously some of the stuff in there had been cleaned out since many of us took various clothing items and stuff. But the rest of his room was pretty much how he left it.

Which is to say that it was a fucking mess. Because that boy had some serious ADHD drama in his head and he hated cleaning up his space. I honestly think the mess was a bit comforting to him.

But I’m moving in less than a month so I can’t keep putting it off. My last post mentioned how Rory and I went through things together. Feel free to go back to that one and read it if you missed by hot mess express. Today, my best friend/chosen sister/biggest support came over to help me with the rest. I probably could have done it alone but she said she wouldn’t let me. And honestly, even just having her there was comforting.

We laughed at his mess. The one bit of Taco Bell trash that I must have missed when I took trash out a couple of weeks after his accident. Laughed hysterically at the stashed condoms (I thought they were gone when I tossed the box I found right after his accident). I guess I’m just glad I taught him safe sex. Sorry to the other parents reading this ha!

We packed Rory’s squishmallows that she insisted stay with his bed because “that’s where they belong”. We packed his comforter stained with concrete because he accidentally sat down on it in work pants. Took down his tv. Took the bed apart.

The room where my baby boy last slept only hours before he rode away for the last time is now disassembled. Even though this is all coming with me to the new house and will have a place in the 3rd bedroom, it still hurts.

His life now packed into boxes. Disassembled.

Ashes in a fucking box on a shelf in my living room.

All because of one random asshole on one random Friday night who didn’t pay attention before making a left hand turn.