One afternoon, a few months after my husband died, I absent-mindedly began dismantling a Lego Friends house gathering dust on a shelf in my daughter?s room. I tore off the pink roof and started tossing bricks into a shoebox.
I was perpetually tidying, an obvious effort to create order in the chaos of loss. I?d sweep and scrub and shuffle papers?anything to keep my hands busy. It was like I was back at university and stressed about a big exam; instead of studying, I?d frantically clean as if I might find answers hidden somewhere under the debris. Now I was facing a mountain of death paperwork. I was postponing decisions on what to do with Jon?s shirts and socks. And I was preparing for the biggest test of my life?raising our two kids on my own. I was down to the toy house?s plastic foundation before I realized what I?d done. And I felt sick. I could clearly remember seeing my daughter, Maizey, sitting beside her dad at our dining room table, piecing the dream home together, brick by brick. She had just received the toy as a Christmas gift, and Jon was as excited as she was to tackle the project. Together, they turned the pages of the instruction book, with Maizey eagerly finding the pieces to match the pictures. Jon did not take over the construction but assisted his little girl as they leaned over the table, watching their building take shape. And now, in some over-functioning stupor, I had carelessly demolished the only home they would ever make together.
I returned what w...