Moving after Loss

I sat crosslegged on the floor of the loft. The loft that used to be ours but now was just mine.

It was empty, except for the beer can that sat in front of me and the disco ball in the corner.

But even in its emptiness, the space felt so very full by the life that was lived within those four walls.

This loft wasn’t just home to Brad and I. It was the gathering space for intimate dinners, as friends passed potluck meals around our beat up wooden dining table. It was the host to cocktail dresses and champagne toasts as we squeezed into our living room with 100 others for our annual holiday party. It was the playground for our niece who spent the weekend at “Camp Detroit” while her parents had a weekend getaway. It was refuge to countless friends who experienced break ups, job losses, and deaths of loved ones. And it was the place of celebrations for engagements and babies and promotions.

The loft was also the meeting spot in Brad’s final months as we collected around the kitchen island with whatever guests made an appearance to record the hours of podcast conversations on what life was like with a terminal diagnosis. It was the dance floor as loved ones squeezed into our bedroom as Brad lay dying in bed. And It was the resting place where Brad took his final breath.

The loft was an ode to it all.

The loft was home. It represented both the life we chose together and the life I inevitably ended up with alone.

Even after the trauma of watching Brad slip away, I loved that loft.

But for reasons both practical and emotional, it was time to go.

But leaving wasn’t just walking away from our home. It was walking away from my community. My job. My sense of belonging. And a hundred tiny other losses I was forced to grieve.

But I knew it was time.

Unsure of what would come next, I sat on the floor, with its high ceilings and oversized windows, and thanked both Brad and the loft for providing such an incredible home.

And with one last goodbye, I picked up my disco ball and left.