Steps

I setup email forwarding from her email.

I stuffed envelopes with copies of her death certificate to send to creditors.

We are going to her house this weekend, to load a uhaul with what we want to keep.  I've emailed piano movers.  I'll book a truck tomorrow.

I can do this.  I have to do it.

I kind of wanted to spend another night there.  And another.  And another.  We said we already spent our last night there.  It was unremarkable -- the weekend I said we'd have a yard sale and celebrate my birthday, then canceled.  I only half believed it was our last night, even as said it was.

I was going to take it back -- have us stay there again, but now, I think the power has been turned off.

I want to stay there again, and curl up in mom's bed, on mom's couch.  I want to have my quiet time laying next to Amy talking softly and singing.  It's my favorite time with her.

I want to hear the sound of the door opening, of the heat going on, of mom shuffling through the house in the dark.  I want to wake up to sounds of Mom and Amy, have Mom saying to us before our morning cup of coffee "ok, before you leave, there are three things I'm going to ask you to do."

We will never have that place again.  It will be just a memory, that fewer and fewer people in my life share.

I just want to go home.