It's weird.

Quiet. 

Different.

Bittersweet.

I am overwhelmed with the things that call for my attention:  the piles of stuff hastily strewn about the basement in an effort to re-do the master bedroom for Ro and me again; the piles of laundry thrown down following our trip; the piles of bills and paperwork in my basket that need to be sorted, paid, filed, or thrown; the piles of bills and paperwork in Pop's basket.

Sometimes I just stare at it all, wonder where to begin, and walk back out.

I can shut the door.  Put up the CLOSED sign.  Pick up a book.  Forget it for another day.

I do not miss planning everything around him.  I do not miss having to have someone always here for him.  I do not miss buying Circus Peanuts or Little Debbies, coordinating office visits and logging bowel movements.

I do miss him just being here.

And though he was here for only a short time, his presence is everywhere - in the basement now, where many of his things have landed; in the fireplace room, where his chair sits empty unless I occupy it myself with a book to escape; obviously in our room / his room / our room again; in the market by the bananas and cookies and yogurt; in the car where the cushion for his wheelchair still sits.

The kids haven't said too much.  I think, like me, it just feels weird.  Different.  This is the first time in nearly a year and a half it's just been the five of us.  Last night was the first time since he's been gone that just the five of us sat down for dinner together.  Pop's spot at the end of the table was empty.

Weird.

Tomorrow would be his 91st birthday.  We didn't even have time to make plans for the celebration; shortly after Mom and Deb told him they'd be back for it he began to decline.  They won't be here now.  Just us now, the five of us.  Maybe for dinner we'll grill Spam.  Have apple and banana salad.  Molasses cookies.  Lemonade.  Vanilla ice cream.  SOS ~ although I never did learn to make it the way the Army did.

I need to find another book.