Couch.

Sometimes I'm still paralyzed without her. One year later and I still choke up about going some places, doing some things, and partaking in different conversations. A few things recently have embedded this whole idea like a hole in the murky waters of my heart, wishing and longing for her so much that it takes me a while to even define it.

This week, I have to buy a couch. But I can't walk into the furniture stores. Just writing about it here makes me cry.

She's supposed to be here with me. She's supposed to shop with me, to dream with me, to care about me, to support me. She's supposed to see this seemingly big step in my journey to adulthood and encourage and hug me. She's supposed to haul out her little grid of designs and sizes and test materials and tell me what is a good couch and what price range it is supposed to be in.

But she's not, and so I'm weeping and paralyzed in the process.

Ideas stay frozen in my mind, half finished. The joy of decorating is still contained in portions of my mind, zapped by the fear of not doing it right, and doing it alone. I want her advice, I want her input. We'd talk about buying a couch forever, and how it would make me feel like I really had my own place, and was calling it home.

When Kelly decorated, my mom took her every where. Even when they came to see me, they bought towels and linens and soap dispensers for Kelly's second home. When mom moved, my grandma did the same for her, taking her to Broenes furniture and testing and looking at different ideas and endeavors. I go at it alone. And it hurts, undoing whatever could heal.