“Alice & Bill’s Story”
The house was too big for one person.
Bill had always known this, even before Alice had passed. But now, with Alice gone, it wasn’t just too big—it was empty. The echo of her laughter no longer filled the rooms or his heart, and the warm glow of her presence seemed to have been replaced by the cold shadows of his loneliness.
The kids had suggested he downsize. “It’ll be easier, Dad,” his eldest daughter had said, her hand gently resting on his. “You don’t need all this space anymore.”
She was right, of course. But nothing was easier for him. Not yet. Not when he could feel the comfort of Alice’s strength in every part of their home.
Still, there was no denying that things had to change. He couldn’t keep every vase she’d collected from their trips, every stack of birthday cards, or every knitting pattern book. The house had become a museum, not a home. And as much as it hurt, Bill knew that Alice wouldn’t have wanted that.
So, one drizzly Tuesday morning, Bill found himself standing in his garage, staring at a mountain of boxes. He had no idea where to begin. His shoulders shuddered as he twirled the gold band on his left hand.
The first box he opened was filled with Christmas ornaments. He could still hear Alice’s voice in his mind: “Don’t you dare put the angel on top without me watching, Bill! It’s tradition!” A lump rose in his throat. He set the box aside. It’s too soon.
The next held old clothes—her summer dresses, folded neatly, still smelling faintly of her favourite Estee Lauder perfume. In his mind, he watched Alice bringing him a beer, jigging side to side, singing “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”. Smiling and calling him with her hands, “Come on Billy, have a dance with me, you know you want to.” Dropping to his knees, he buried his face in the dress with the blue daisies, tears spilling freely. After a while he lifted his head, he folded the dress and closed the box, whispering, “I should have danced.”
Hours passed. Memories surfaced and retreated like waves. By the afternoon, the garage was an emotional battlefield, with boxes of “keep” and “decide later” scattered around.
It was then that his neighbour, Olive, popped her head in. “Need a hand, Bill?” she asked gently.
He nodded, too weary to protest and tears blurring his eyes.
Olive surveyed the chaos. “Have you thought about a storage unit, Bill?” she suggested. “You don’t have to decide everything right now. Some things just need a bit of space and time.”
Storage. It wasn’t a word Bill had considered. But the idea made sense. He didn’t have to throw Alice away. He could give her things a temporary home while he figured out what to do next.
That’s how Bill found himself standing at the Echuca Moama Storage facility a few days later, nervously clutching a small box. “Take your time Mr. Carter,” the manager had said with a kind smile.
Inside, Bill arranged the boxes as carefully as if he were building a house of cards. He lingered over each one before placing it on the shelf, whispering silent promises to Alice that he wasn’t abandoning her—just making room to breathe.
When the last box was placed, he stepped back and took a deep breath. The space felt oddly comforting. It wasn’t goodbye. It was just… a pause. A way to move forward without letting go entirely.
Over the next few weeks, Bill found himself visiting the unit more often than he’d expected. Sometimes he’d just sit on a folding chair he’d brought, sipping a thermos of tea, surrounded by Alice’s things. Other times, he’d bring the grandkids and pull out old photo albums, telling them stories about the vibrant, unstoppable woman their grandmother had been.
The storage unit became more than a space for boxes. It became a bridge—a place where past and future could coexist without clashing. Slowly, the house began to feel less like a museum and more like home again. The grand-kids filled it back up with their laughter and raucous fun times with their Pa.
One day, as Bill locked up the unit, he realised something: Alice wasn’t in the boxes. She was in his heart, his stories, his laughter, and even in the quiet moments when he missed her most. He squeezed the locket he kept inside the top pocket of his Bowls uniform. “Okay love, I’m off to Bowls.” He turned the key, wiped a tear from his cheek, and smiled. He’d keep the unit for a while longer. Maybe he’d never empty it completely. And that was okay. Because sometimes, moving forward doesn’t mean letting go—it just means making space for life to happen again.
