Hollow life, hollow world

I recently discovered I need not just a new washing machine but a new dryer, too, as both now have a laundry list (ha. get it? laundry list? Man, even while grieving, I'm still punny . . . or not. . .) of issues that I've decided would be best rectified by replacing. Washer leaks all over if I do more than a medium sized load, dryer makes a most hideous screeching sound that both doggies high-tail it to the basement to hide . . .

So my latest pasttime has been researching washers and dryers online, talking to people, making a few stops here and there at appliance stores, to see what's out there, and my first conclusion is that there should only be three models of washers and dryers to choose from. But there's not. See, y'got your front loaders, your top loaders with agitator, your top loaders without agitator, washers with "sanitizing" features, dryers with "steam" features, "smart" machines that automatically fill up with just the right amount of water, based on the weight of your load, delay timers, multiple washing programs, anti-vibration systems, spin speeds that break the sound barrier . . .

Gone are the days of the simple dial and "start" button. Now, washers and dryers look like the cockpit of a 747. I am overflowing (kind of like my washer) with appliance information overload that I'm tempted to say, "hell with it all!" and take to scrubbing my clothes on the rocks in my front garden and hanging them up to dry on the line outside. All year. Even in winter. For the rest of my life. Can't seem to make a decision to save my life these days. . .

This search has been going on a good couple weeks now; today, I took a Sunday drive over to the Roseville area, hit ApplianceSmart and the Sears Outlet center to see what they had in stock, with every intent on whipping out the plastic and walking out with something . . . instead, I talked appliance features with salesmen who reeked of cigarettes, till my eyes glazed over and my head started to not really care which machine had what "latest technology." Suddenly, they all seemed ridiculously complicated, so instead, I asked for brochures, a business card and left. Found myself driving east on Larpenteur Avenue and before I could come to my senses, took a left onto Malvern and drove north till I was at 1901 Malvern, the house Bob lived in when I first met him. I was crying even before I got to the house, and almost didn't recognize it. . . it's had some updates in the 18 or so years since I last saw it, but I could still, easily imagine Bob's sweet little Mitsubishi Eclipse in the driveway, see him standing on the front steps, dressed up for work, long black overcoat, waving good bye to me as I drove back to Winona . . .

I cried the entire drive home, so many memories displacing the tangle of appliance information that had filled my head . . . talking to my mom later, she asked why I did I do that, why do that to myself, drive by his old house . . . I have to, I told her. I need proof that Bob was real, that what we had for 18 years was real, that he had an imprint on this world . . . these tangible landmarks of our life together are what does that for me, even though seeing them suck the breath right out of me, choke my throat, grip my stomach, and I haven't been able to stop crying all day. . .

I met Penny and Jim for lunch in Mankato for Father's Day last weekend, to catch up with them in person, even though I'm sure Jim had no desire to "celebrate" such a holiday . . . I gave him two cute photo frames from Ikea, in the form of a unrolled roll of film (how perfect for Bob!), with spaces for several 4x6 photos. I filled each space with the most beautiful pictures of Bob that I could find, which was a hard job because every picture I have of him is the most beautiful. . . When I went back down to St. James a few days later to see Nancy and her family who were in town for a few days, I noticed the pictures were nowhere to be seen. Not surprised . . . when I was saying goodbye, Jim hugged me tight and thanked me again for coming down for Father's Day and for the pictures. "It's going to be a while before we can put them up," he said quietly, "it's so hard to look at pictures of Bob yet, still seems so unreal . . . " I told him it was okay, that they have to do what's right for them, and if they never put them up, that's okay, too. I just wanted them to have the pictures. . .

Funny, I can't stop looking at pictures of Bob, can't stop reading the beautiful letters he wrote to me, can't stop trying to piece together the husband who was so visciously taken from me so long ago, yet also trying to honor and remember the journey he and I traveled this past year and a half, as well . . . I don't want to forget anything about him, and our life together, but I know I've already forgotten too much. That's why I drive past the Hickory Inn. That's why I drive past 1901 Malvern. That's why I can't stop looking at pictures of my achingly handsome husband. For some, it may seem like self-induced torture. For me, it's to remember. To make Bob real again, to try, somehow, somewhat, to fill the gaping hollow in my heart, my soul, in this world without him.