I still mother them….

People who haven’t lived this kind of loss don’t understand.They think it’s just stuff.It’s not.We don’t need things. Not really. But our soul does. Because those things are proof. Proof they were here. Proof they existed. Proof that all of this wasn’t just a dream we woke up from.A scrap of paper with their handwriting.A pencil with teeth marks worn into it.Something broken at the bottom of a purse that made no sense to anyone but them.Old notebooks filled with doodles, half thoughts, and words that only they understood.I pick things up sometimes and I can feel them. Not in some big, dramatic way. Just… there. Like a quiet echo.And then comes the question no one prepares you for:What do you do with all of it?Where does it go?Does it belong in a box we open on the days we can’t breathe?Does it sit out where we can see it, so it doesn’t feel like we’re hiding them?Do we pack it away?Do we… throw it out?Even typing that feels wrong.Because it’s not trash. It could never be trash.But keeping everything feels overwhelming too. Like living inside a museum of what used to be.I don’t think there’s a right answer.Some days I want it all around me.Some days it’s too much to look at.Some things feel sacred. Like they need to stay exactly where they are.Other things… I don’t know. I just don’t know.And maybe that’s the truth of it.There is no perfect place for these things. Because there is no place big enough to hold what they meant.So we do the best we can.We keep what we need.We hold what we can.We give ourselves permission not to decide everything all at once.Because this isn’t about organizing belongings.This is about learning how to carry love that has nowhere to go.And maybe… just maybe…these things don’t belong in a box.Maybe they belong with us.