Of late, we have been discussing the possibility of moving house. Some friends suggested it within the first few months. Some bereaved parents shared that ‘luckily’ a house move had been on the cards when their child passed away. Some people are surprised that we continue to live in our family home and have not really thought of moving as yet.
So far I have not felt capable of making any major decisions. In fact, I am still not sure if I am. While everything is connected with my son directly or indirectly and some of it, such as the railway station, is really painful and sometimes impossible to bear, I also find comfort in knowing that his room is upstairs and I can go there anytime. I may spend less than half an hour there in a week, but I like having that option.
Although I feel his presence in my heart all the time, being in his room is special. I remember all the hours I spent there with him, listening to music, watching funny Youtube videos, changing curtains and bed linen, playing with Milkshake (his cat) or just sitting and reading my book while he did school work. I remember going up there on New Year’s eve to watch the fireworks in central London. I remember yelling at him for keeping it so untidy with a big heap of dirty clothing piled up in a corner and old cups of coffee so dry that one could be led to believe that the inside of the mug was made brown.
I remember laughing and chuckling voices coming from his room when his friends visited. Sometimes I would have to text him to keep it down when I was going to bed. And he would. Every night we made it a point to wish each other ‘Good night’, if not in person for whatever reason, then by text.
He loved his room. One of his friends wrote “The first time I visited your house he walked me up to his room with my eyes closed before revealing the beautiful night time skyline you can see from his window. So much enthusiasm to share what was special to him!”. I had a peaceful feeling in my heart when he was there. Being in this house makes me feel close to him. I sometimes pretend to myself that he is still upstairs. There is a part of me that feels that if we were to move out, we would be leaving him behind. I know it’s silly. That’s how it is. For now.