Moved

The move went well. We had a small army of men and teenagers show up to move furniture, along with a crew of women (and more teenagers) to clean my old apartment. I've written before about how much I adore my church family. Saturday, they were at their best. There were even two gentlemen that stayed for a couple hours after everybody else had left to set up my intricate entertainment system. I had people rearranging furniture, more people unloading boxes, and still others surveying the yard and making plans for a service project by the young men in our church. In short, it was the best move I've ever made--physically.

I don't think I had understood how heavily our old apartment was weighing on me. In that apartment--although I had slowly and steadily removed signs of Ammon's life there--his presence still lingered. The living room was still set up the way he wanted it. There were things that were stored in ways that were convenient to him. His pictures on the walls. His clothes in the closet his razor in the bathroom. All the hours in that apartment. The sofa where we spent countless hours curled up, the room where we made love. The floor where he laid down to play with the kids. All of the furniture, along with the memories of those things, came with us. Left behind is the hill where he wrecked his motorcycle that day, and where I watched his final, shuddering breaths. It was bittersweet leaving those things.

The most unexpectedly difficult part of the day was the removal of five pieces of paper that have been taped on the living room wall for the last 18 months.

Every year since we got married, we have been avid participants in the NCAA March Madness tournament. It started when we were newlyweds and became friends with Travis and Christina. Ammon and Travis (being the sports geeks) did the brackets as a serious competition between the two of them, and spent hours debating the merits of teams, specific players, individual games, and the conference system as a whole. Christina and I participated mostly for the absurdity of our choices. Christina is more sports-minded than myself, but in the beginning I started out picking teams based on how fun their name was to write. After a half-dozen years of good natured ribbing between the four of us (and a complete refusal to let anybody else join our bracket competition) I had become more adept at picking teams. A couple years I actually came close to winning. At least, close as in not-completely-last. 2008, I vowed, would be my year. I was finally going to beat the sports knowledge of Ammon and Travis, and would be the bracket champion. The boys, of course, scoffed. Unabated, I refused to discuss brackets with anybody. I wouldn't divulge my pick for first choice, and I avidly and determinedly avoided any and all research about the teams. I wanted my picks to be un-tainted my advice, sport casters rantings, or persuasion. The week the tournament started, I painstakingly wrote out four brackets with every body's picks (because they all had to be in my handwriting. I'm weird like that) and posted them on the wall. Somewhere along the line, the Sports Illustrated bracket also became part of the tournament. They were always posted in a central location of our home, and every day during the tournament Ammon and I would watch for each game to be completed, and highlighted the brackets that had picked the winners correctly. The more highlighted spots, the more points per person. 2008 would be MY year. I picked Kansas, and cheered relentlessly for my teams every step of the way. Kansas ended up taking the final championship, and I gloated mercilessly for the two weeks between the end of the tournament and Ammon's death.


In the 17 months since then, I couldn't bear to take the brackets down. As moving day approached, I carefully packed pictures. I wrapped knick-knacks in bubble wrap and placed them in boxes. I packed everything in my apartment, but still couldn't remove the brackets from the living room wall. On Saturday, in the midst of more than a dozen people scurrying around my apartment, I was upstairs taking the crib apart.

Mary yelled up the stairs "Victoria, I'm going to take the brackets down. What do you want me to do with them?"

I paused. For a long time. The whole house was silent, it seemed, as I struggled to formulate a response. With a catch in my throat I replied "I want pictures first. My camera is in my purse in the car. Please take pictures first".

Just like that, the brackets were gone. I returned to finish taking the crib apart with tears in my eyes, then went downstairs to carefully stow the separate brackets in a safe place.

The rest of the day went smoothly. I grieved for the loss of this apartment during the packing process, as I uncovered little pieces of the life that I don't have anymore. I cried while packing up the bookcase, and again as I sorted through board games that have remained largely untouched since my gaming partner died. I sobbed when I sorted our closet, and wept as I cleaned out his dresser. Many tears were shed during the weeks leading up to this move, but on moving day I only had tears for the brackets.

Today, I feel good. I feel like this house is a fresh start. The two mornings that I have awoken in my new bedroom, I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to pinch myself. This is my home. This is the house that I have dreamed of having for years.

There was a moment, on Saturday, that I briefly sat down on the couch in the living room, and watched the boys ride their bikes in the street. For the second time that day, tears came to my eyes--but this time tears of bittersweet happiness. This house would have been a dream come true for Ammon. Seeing our children ride their bikes, gleefully make friends with the neighbors, and run pell-mell through the basement would have nearly split his soul with happiness. It did the same for me, but I wish he could have been there to see it. It was a moment I would liked to have shared with him.