The hardest moments come when I stumble on something I didn’t know about. Notes, drawings, cards–so many unknown pieces of him float into my awareness as I clear out the apartment and gather up Ed’s things.
I found a painting of his the other day. I thought that I was going to sort through some matte board and ended up finding this wonderful, surreal work. I’m so familiar with his comics work that I didn’t recognize that it was his. When I turned it over, I started crying. He had made it in college. He had never told me about it.
Ed told me stories about everything that happened in his life. He told me about Japan, Florida, his childhood, his friends in Chicago. We constantly communicated about everything. But I keep finding things that just didn’t come up. It breaks my heart because I’ll never hear him tell the story about these objects. If they survived KonMari, they meant something to him. But in 14 months–with nearly half of it taken up with his illness–there were only so many things we could say to each other. Maybe a friend of his will tell me someday, but it won’t be the same.