Deleting

In my iPhone, in the Reminders app, is a list called TO DO WITH RICK. I suppose I ought to delete it. It's wedged in there among my other lists, like TV shows I watch, things I need to buy, stuff I have to do, and adventures Jennifer and I are going to have.

I guess I should delete TO DO WITH RICK, because I won't get to do any of those things with him. But it's hard. I can't delete it yet, for the same reasons I still have the golf he recorded on the DVR the weekend he died.

It's not that I watch the golf. It's not that I re-read the list of things I wanted to do with Rick. It's not like I'd really miss them if they were gone from my DVR or my iPhone.

It's the act of deleting.

I can't.

It's final. Once deleted, there is no getting it back. And in a little corner of my heart, it means something to me because it reminds me of Rick.

It's not a bad thing to be reminded. So for now, there is no hurry. There is no rush to delete.

Deleting is not an option. Deleting is permanent. Final. It feels deliberate. And scary.

Deleting makes me feel fragile.

delete (verb):
to strike out or remove (something written or printed); cancel; erase; expunge.

Most of all, it feels hypocritical. I can't delete something associated with Rick when I all I want him to do is stay.