It seems to take me twice as long to do things right now. I spent nearly 12 hours trying to get through work Monday and Tuesday without making too many mistakes.
I've also been, very slowly, making my way through the thousands of photo folders that contain precious memories of Evan. I started in 2017 and am working my way backward, watching moments of his life in reverse. Katy reenters, and gets more mobile. Evan grows younger and bouncier. I'm only back to 2014. But each rediscovered picture and, even more, little phone videos, make me smile and cry simultaneously.
I've ordered his urn and await the call to come take home his cremains. I've printed out photos, more than I could ever possibly frame and display, and touch his face in each one as gaze on them.
This morning, I woke with the thought that I wanted to touch his fur again. But when I reached for the baggie holding them, they were not by my bed. I jumped out of bed and started frantically looking for them. They were gone. I was turning the bedroom upside down, emptying out trash, horrified at the thought the little baggie might have gotten swept in the garbage without thinking. More horrifying, that the trash had been collected yesterday. Bob was patiently trying to get me to slow down, helping me look. I imagined Evan's reaction. He'd have been nervously leaving the rooms I was flailing around in and peeking at me from doorways. He was always so sensitive to me getting upset. Even when I'd just absentmindedly sigh, he would fidget.
I finally collected myself and got still. "Where did I put it, Evan?"
My mind flashed to the pocket of my owl hoodie I'd barely been able to bring myself to take off. Ii had been placed in a large ziplock baggie and tucked into a drawer, covered in his fur, just yesterday. I removed it from the bag and slid my hand inside the pocket.
There it was. I had to pull out the tuft of his tail and cry into it for awhile.
He's been gone 90 hours now.