The Fate Thing (Working Title)

What do you do about dead people things?

There things about death that people don't tell you.
People give you all the things you expect them to give you. The kind of thing you see at other funerals and in movies.
People hug you for a long time, even if they don't know you.
They show up at your doorstep with mystery casseroles that have unidentifiable ingredients. 
They say all the things they're supposed to say, all the things you've heard over and over and over again. "We're so sorry about Julie", "Don't hesitate to call", "She's in a much better place". All of them living Hallmark cards shuffling awkwardly throughout the house, trying to talk about Julie but trying to avoid talking about Julie.
They come out of the woodwork. Like all funerals, some of her people actually cared and some are there for the "Yeah, I knew the dead chick" recognition. People from her present. People from her past. People I'd never even heard of before. People I didn't even know she still talked to. How often did she talk to them? How did they get her number? What did they talk about? How did they know what happened?
There's an unwritten rule book for death that everyone's read and everyone follows. They tell you about what's in the casserole, how much it's all going to cost and they tell you about how it'll be alright. 
But they don't tell you the things you'll actually need to know. 
They don't tell you about when you come home from work and her car's in the driveway. Still sitting stagnant in the same place she left it.
They don't tell you about what to do with this girly champagne she used to drink and that you know you never will. 
They don't tell you about what to do with all of her stuff. How you're going to come across all of her stuff, for a long time. Even though she's not here, it's like she's still here. Her toothbrush nudged in the hole next to mine, her hairbrush on the counter, all of her clothes draped down from their hangers awaiting her touch. The entire house f*****g reeks of her. It was like she moved about but left everything behind. A ghost among the living.
And they don't tell you what to do about them.
Do you give it away? "I thought you might like this, it was Julie's, you know, my dead wife."
Do you throw everything away? Can you handle throwing everything away?
Do you give everything to a thrift store? Thrift stores were for people who didn't want their things anymore, so other people could have them. A place for items that didn't have a home. Julie didn't want to get rid of her things, her things had a person, had a home. Plus she hated thrift stores. I wonder how much dead people stuff I owned in college.
Or do you just live with it all? Do you just live with all of their stuff playing make believe? Do you challenge yourself to live in denial? Do you push yourself? Punish yourself?
Other people just say "I'm not ready", and then other people just accept that reasoning. They're not ready to move on, to let go, and that's fine I guess. I don't think that's really it though.
There's this strange intuition in me that wants to hang on to it all for a week or so. This weird "just in case" feeling. Like I might wake up and see that she got in her car and went somewhere. Like there will be a fresh bottle of her French whatever standing on the kitchen counter awaiting her arrival home from work. Like I'll find her hairbrush on the other side of the sink. Like she'll come back for a sweater, just in case it gets cold wherever she went. Like I'll open the door, she'll jump from the couch and scream "SURPRISE!" Like I'll wake up tomorrow morning, a head full of hair in my face, that sweet Julie smell of something like vanilla that would greet me every morning. 
One of her dresses casually hangs in the closet like nothing ever happened. It still smells like her.