You haven’t lived in here in several years, not full time anyway. Yet, I can’t help but feel overwhelming nostalgia at packing it all up. You never really lived in this room. There was no ceremony when your sister encroached on your back bedroom. Seems like some female is always moving you in or moving you out. You can see Gram's things in here. She’s anxious to make it her own. I don't blame her. She's been a nomad for the past 7 months. But it still makes me sad. Like there is some finality in it. Why, as humans, are we always putting significance in stuff. I'd love to make a shrine of your bedroom. Probably more for me than for you. Maybe it signifies to me that I raised a living creature from a baby to a full grown man. But I think your room signifies the 18+ years that you lived here in this house with us day in and day out. Such a small fraction of your life, and ours really. But oh what beautiful years they were. Days that you couldn't appreciate the beauty in the midst of it because you were so focused on just making it through the next hour. You have been and will always be my beautiful, beautiful boy. A gift from God. While I may not have been the perfect mother at all times, I thank you for allowing me to hold that sacred role.
I feel a deep sense of loss.
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