Time slithers on like a poisonous snake. It creates new shapes, memories, and opportunities, but allows dust to settle over its path. Time is an entity we as humans cannot reverse nor fast forward – no matter how deep our vengeance. I choose to believe that our understanding of time is mostly veiled in the unknown – dimensions, lairs, and sheathes wrap around and layer him in clouded mystery. What makes up not even an inhale to time in turn has destroyed my best laid plans. What is a blip to him, is a life to me – a life lost.
It has been said that 'time heals all pain'. Maybe so. But what kind of time are we talking about? Decades? Centuries? Eons? Aren't we still experiencing the pain of the extinction of species? Aren't we still in a deep rut of hate that has been present for hundreds of years resulting from religious fear tactics, manifesting as tyranny and terrorism? Aren't we only beginning to understand the pain of the effect our ignorance and lack of care has had on the environment? I realize these grievous circumstances are immense chasms much bigger than my story – the death of one very important man – but to me, it's the biggest story. It's my life. My future. My broken heart. So time, you bastard, what are we talking about here? I don't feel like I'm healing. I feel bruised, raw, and like a scab that is ripped off repeatedly, leaving no time for recovery – only festering infection and eventual scarring.
Though, as if forced by the neck, I slither on with time. At some points I'm kicking and screaming along the way. At other times, my head is down and I walk aimlessly like a prisoner ankle-bound in shackles. Sometimes, I feel my feet beneath me again, my heart beating – reminding me of my own life – and my monkey-mind quivering in anticipation for something to create. Often, I do create – because it's my nature. Lately, I feel a need-for-speed. Struggling with my usual momentum, I'm wading in a puddle of mud. Searching for inspiration is a challenge when my feet are stuck in the quicksand of tarnished dreams. To be completely honest, I thought my next career move was to be a mother. Now, I'm still absentmindedly blinking at the abyss that sits where my swelling expectations had been comfortably nesting. I'm trying to carve out new beginnings and rousing continuations from tragically aborted dreams.
One unique way I've been dealing with my grief is to participate in life the way I imagine you would. I find myself hovering near the soundboard of a funk show, analyzing the layers of music, the production quality, and the passion of the musicians. I am in conversation with you the way we would be had we been there together, except now it's a silent one. I go to the shows that you would have wanted to be at – as if I'm somehow allowing you to live on through my experiences. I lock into my skis and take a run that I know you loved, daring myself to take on the mountain and the trees like you would. I try to tackle life with your gusto, especially when my own hope is waning. Also, I see your soul absorbed in the lives of those you loved. I remember you telling me about your best wishes for certain friends; and now as I see those desires materializing, through wary faith I allow myself to believe you're the gentle director of destiny.
I've developed a sort-of tunnel vision as I move through our house. Some days it's as though I'm sitting in a tear-stained tomb of shattered dreams. Other days, I am in a vault of treasured memories. I still feel trepidation about moving any of your belongings out of sight. It's still too soon. Too soon to box up what's left of you, label it 'the past', and put it in storage. Much too soon. I still find something every day that I know you were the last to touch. I still sip sparingly from a water bottle you filled up over five months ago, feeling comforted by knowing some of that liquid touched your mouth, your tongue, your teeth – physical parts of you I can no longer be touched by. We all move through the house in a bit of a haze. Beats has a new perch on the banister, near the front door. She stares out the window and often turns her head to me and meows quizzically. Although, she sleeps with me now. When I awake with mysterious scratches, she's made it very clear that I'm not her first choice. Kira sleeps sadly and at great length; she sighs mournfully and often. Kevin does the same thing.
One thing I've learned through this loss is that we never really 'have' anything. We often spend our lives acquiring. We gather and hoard as if we need to prove our status by the amount of stuff we have, the amount of friends we have, the amount of money we have, the amount of knowledge we have. We can lose everything so quickly – stuff, money, people, even our own will to survive. Who do we become we are stripped of what we thought we had? Perhaps true freedom is the understanding that we are able to let go of anything and keep going. With nothing but a heart that continues to beat in this vessel we have been offered, we can continue moving forward – with time in front of us, at our backs, and holding our hands through the march.
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Home Alone
It's been 62 days, 20 hours, and 36 minutes since I saw you take your last breath. Each day creeps slowly onto the next. I've settled into the knowledge that my only healer will be time. I've heard it, I've read it, but now I feel it, I know it. As of now, the wound remains open and raw. I think in some ways it's more open and raw now than it was 62 days ago. The adrenaline has left my system, the support is softer and less immediate, and the reality is vivid. Life without you is sinking in, it's desolate.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Back Home
For the first time in six weeks, I'm back in our home.
I walked into our house in the middle of the night last night after an eighteen hour cross-country drive. The last time I drove that length towards Colorado was when I was moving in with you just over a year ago. But this time, when I pulled down the snowy driveway, I knew you were no longer inside the house.
The reality of your death has more or less sunk in (I think). When I go about my day, I no longer think you might pop out of nowhere and surprise me, telling me this was all just an elaborate joke. I know you're gone. At least I do most of the time.
I walked into our house. I took a deep breath in and I smelled the scent that only this house has. The aroma unique to this place, these floors, these walls, this furniture, these people, these pets, these memories – it's a bouquet that's distinctive because it belongs to just our home. The house smelled the same when I walked in this time as it had all the other times, even though I knew the main component was missing – you. I didn't expect you to pop out of the pantry, or be practicing drums in your studio, or be lying in the bed this time. I knew you were gone from this place. But I can still smell you.
I walked upstairs immediately. It was very late and I wanted to climb into our bed without getting wrapped up in the overwhelming emotions of being back in this house. I went into our bathroom. All of your toiletries still sit on your countertop. While I can't see you, I see what was yours. Your electric razor is blinking on its charging station, it's ready to trim your beard. Your mouthwash is here wondering why you haven't been swishing twice daily. The little display of knicknacks in your windowsill – a rubber duck, a paper crane, a few heart-shaped ornaments, and some special crystals – they're all still sitting precisely where you arranged them, a little altar commemorating what once was. I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush and kept my eyes down. Reminders of happy times can brutally hit like a baseball bat to my jaw, but even in the pain – it's comfort.
I climbed into our bed and realized I was freezing. Our thin duvet was fine when we were curled up together, but alone in this big bed I was cold. I went and got my favorite blanket. It too, still smells like you. The sheets are still unwashed since you last slept in them. I nestled in, curling up in a ball and settling in like a rodent burrowing into its hole. The warmth and the familiar scent helped me drift off to sleep. My dreams were distorted. I was confused about where I was, where I was supposed to be, and who was there. Dream, or reality?
When I awoke, I was met with a sense of peace. I was happy to be home and to be in our bed. I knew you weren't there, but I still felt close to you. Through air, I can smell you. Through objects, I can see you. I felt protected for the first time in many weeks. I got out of bed and opened the blinds. I gasped at the view out of window. My absence and my pain had distracted me from the sublime beauty of the mountains and nature living just on the other side of the window pane, our view. The scene is no longer Midwestern grey or international but unfamiliar. The same view that was ours just months ago, that we shared, it is unchanged. While so much in my life has changed, the view out the window reminded me that much is still the same. I felt grateful.
I walked into my closet. In order to get there, I walk through yours. All of your clothes still remain hung. Your socks are still matched into pairs of fun colors and patterns, wool socks, athletic socks, gig socks, dress socks. Your boxers are folded on the top shelf, they're all clean. I reached out and ran my fingers across your t-shirts, hoping to somehow touch you and feel you. I felt nothing except fruitless cotton. Once in my closet, I dress slowly. I pull on corduroys and a cardigan sweater. It's the same sweater I bought to wear on our first visit together. It has hearts on it. On that trip, a girlfriend said at the end of the night, "I just noticed your sweater has hearts in the design!" You cut in, "I didn't. I noticed them right away." You said it with a slight blush and a happy smile. I buttoned the sweater deliberately this morning, recalling that first time I'd worn it with you and how carefully you'd unbuttoned it later that night.
I walked downstairs and found Beats. I pet her for a long time until she clawed at me to let her go. I gave her treats and made myself coffee. I opened the refrigerator. I started to clean out what was old and no longer good. In vain, I tried not to think about all of the products we'd bought together, the conversations we'd had in the aisles of the grocery store, the recipes we had planned to make, or the game of credit card roulette we'd played to see who would pay for the groceries. I cleared out the fridge and filled it with fresh food – food that I'd tried to buy for one, but couldn't. I still shopped for you too.
I wandered around the house in awe of its magnificence. I realized how caught up I'd been in all the work we were about to do to the house that I'd completely lost sight of how incredible it is. I walked through each room and admired our castle. I tried not to think of what would become of it, of the questions that fill my mind about the future, about the empty dreams that sit on shelves and rot in the bedrooms. I saw the house for its beauty and its comfort. A home is more than just walls around us. Its walls contain the love we created. Our home makes our love ours. It safeguards it with walls, a roof, and a place to house memories. I love this house.
I spent a lot of time moving through our home today with no real direction. I admired what we created here. I smelled the memories of you. I leafed through books you loved or ones I've since been given. I saw you in the their stories. I looked at the objects we'd chosen to fill shelves with – candles, vases, flowers, statues, rocks, music, photos, plants, and art. I read the words on a framed drawing you'd given me on my first trip to the house. It said, "Feels like some kind of ride, but it turns out it's just life going absolutely perfectly." I wished I could teleport back to those moments, just months ago, when life was going perfectly.
The term "out of sight, out of mind" dates back to at least 1562. I don't think John Heywood had dealt with the loss of his soulmate when he wrote it. You are just as ever-present in my mind here as you have been every moment of the past six weeks that I've been gone. There isn't a minute that goes by where my heart isn't heavy, my spirit isn't dwindled, and my body isn't exhausted from all the grieving and all the missing. I am learning to mourn with more sense of reality, but that doesn't make it even a tiny bit easier. Your absence leaves a black hole where my heart once was. I know you aren't physically here, but I won't call off the search party anytime soon.
I walked into our house in the middle of the night last night after an eighteen hour cross-country drive. The last time I drove that length towards Colorado was when I was moving in with you just over a year ago. But this time, when I pulled down the snowy driveway, I knew you were no longer inside the house.
The reality of your death has more or less sunk in (I think). When I go about my day, I no longer think you might pop out of nowhere and surprise me, telling me this was all just an elaborate joke. I know you're gone. At least I do most of the time.
I walked into our house. I took a deep breath in and I smelled the scent that only this house has. The aroma unique to this place, these floors, these walls, this furniture, these people, these pets, these memories – it's a bouquet that's distinctive because it belongs to just our home. The house smelled the same when I walked in this time as it had all the other times, even though I knew the main component was missing – you. I didn't expect you to pop out of the pantry, or be practicing drums in your studio, or be lying in the bed this time. I knew you were gone from this place. But I can still smell you.
I walked upstairs immediately. It was very late and I wanted to climb into our bed without getting wrapped up in the overwhelming emotions of being back in this house. I went into our bathroom. All of your toiletries still sit on your countertop. While I can't see you, I see what was yours. Your electric razor is blinking on its charging station, it's ready to trim your beard. Your mouthwash is here wondering why you haven't been swishing twice daily. The little display of knicknacks in your windowsill – a rubber duck, a paper crane, a few heart-shaped ornaments, and some special crystals – they're all still sitting precisely where you arranged them, a little altar commemorating what once was. I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush and kept my eyes down. Reminders of happy times can brutally hit like a baseball bat to my jaw, but even in the pain – it's comfort.
I climbed into our bed and realized I was freezing. Our thin duvet was fine when we were curled up together, but alone in this big bed I was cold. I went and got my favorite blanket. It too, still smells like you. The sheets are still unwashed since you last slept in them. I nestled in, curling up in a ball and settling in like a rodent burrowing into its hole. The warmth and the familiar scent helped me drift off to sleep. My dreams were distorted. I was confused about where I was, where I was supposed to be, and who was there. Dream, or reality?
When I awoke, I was met with a sense of peace. I was happy to be home and to be in our bed. I knew you weren't there, but I still felt close to you. Through air, I can smell you. Through objects, I can see you. I felt protected for the first time in many weeks. I got out of bed and opened the blinds. I gasped at the view out of window. My absence and my pain had distracted me from the sublime beauty of the mountains and nature living just on the other side of the window pane, our view. The scene is no longer Midwestern grey or international but unfamiliar. The same view that was ours just months ago, that we shared, it is unchanged. While so much in my life has changed, the view out the window reminded me that much is still the same. I felt grateful.
I walked into my closet. In order to get there, I walk through yours. All of your clothes still remain hung. Your socks are still matched into pairs of fun colors and patterns, wool socks, athletic socks, gig socks, dress socks. Your boxers are folded on the top shelf, they're all clean. I reached out and ran my fingers across your t-shirts, hoping to somehow touch you and feel you. I felt nothing except fruitless cotton. Once in my closet, I dress slowly. I pull on corduroys and a cardigan sweater. It's the same sweater I bought to wear on our first visit together. It has hearts on it. On that trip, a girlfriend said at the end of the night, "I just noticed your sweater has hearts in the design!" You cut in, "I didn't. I noticed them right away." You said it with a slight blush and a happy smile. I buttoned the sweater deliberately this morning, recalling that first time I'd worn it with you and how carefully you'd unbuttoned it later that night.
I walked downstairs and found Beats. I pet her for a long time until she clawed at me to let her go. I gave her treats and made myself coffee. I opened the refrigerator. I started to clean out what was old and no longer good. In vain, I tried not to think about all of the products we'd bought together, the conversations we'd had in the aisles of the grocery store, the recipes we had planned to make, or the game of credit card roulette we'd played to see who would pay for the groceries. I cleared out the fridge and filled it with fresh food – food that I'd tried to buy for one, but couldn't. I still shopped for you too.
I wandered around the house in awe of its magnificence. I realized how caught up I'd been in all the work we were about to do to the house that I'd completely lost sight of how incredible it is. I walked through each room and admired our castle. I tried not to think of what would become of it, of the questions that fill my mind about the future, about the empty dreams that sit on shelves and rot in the bedrooms. I saw the house for its beauty and its comfort. A home is more than just walls around us. Its walls contain the love we created. Our home makes our love ours. It safeguards it with walls, a roof, and a place to house memories. I love this house.
I spent a lot of time moving through our home today with no real direction. I admired what we created here. I smelled the memories of you. I leafed through books you loved or ones I've since been given. I saw you in the their stories. I looked at the objects we'd chosen to fill shelves with – candles, vases, flowers, statues, rocks, music, photos, plants, and art. I read the words on a framed drawing you'd given me on my first trip to the house. It said, "Feels like some kind of ride, but it turns out it's just life going absolutely perfectly." I wished I could teleport back to those moments, just months ago, when life was going perfectly.
The term "out of sight, out of mind" dates back to at least 1562. I don't think John Heywood had dealt with the loss of his soulmate when he wrote it. You are just as ever-present in my mind here as you have been every moment of the past six weeks that I've been gone. There isn't a minute that goes by where my heart isn't heavy, my spirit isn't dwindled, and my body isn't exhausted from all the grieving and all the missing. I am learning to mourn with more sense of reality, but that doesn't make it even a tiny bit easier. Your absence leaves a black hole where my heart once was. I know you aren't physically here, but I won't call off the search party anytime soon.
Samanthics
The experience of sudden loss is jolting. I am left aimless and alone in our house with remnants of you everywhere, but you are not to be found. It's confusing.
I see your things. I can't walk into my closet without walking through yours. I see your shirts – hung meticulously and color-coded ready for your next wear. I see your hats – arranged in order of preference on a shelf meant for shoes, still smelling of your sweat and hair. I see your yoga shorts – waiting for your next Downward Facing Dog and quickly improving Kundinyasana. I see your pajama pants – the ones that say 'Dog Gone Tired' with cartoons of sleepy pups that you would lounge in on our lazy days. Your towel still hangs on its hook by the shower. I have been using it to dry off. Some days I don't though, instead I just grab it between my hands and smell it as deeply as I can, as if maybe I'll find you in the scent. I'm looking for you in everything, Teddy.
Yesterday I walked into a restaurant we only went to once. I was there to pick up some to-go salads for April and I. I made a quick choice on what to eat, my appetite is nothing like it used to be. I didn't allow my eyes arrive to the spot on the menu that contained sandwiches, because I knew that's what we'd shared that day we dined there together a few months ago. Conscious avoidance is key for me right now. They handed me a buzzer to notify me of my order being up. Damn, this was so familiar.
Buzzer in hand I walked over to the high-top tables to wait. I saw the table we'd sat in that day. I studied the man who was sitting there alone now. I noticed how much he was not you. I felt the new and familiar sense of panic land in my gut. I was about to cry. I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in before the tears hit. It was a single restroom and in the midst of my onset of panic, I remembered how I'd gone pee three times during our lunch together that day. We'd been drinking hibiscus tea throughout our meal. I'd sweetened mine with stevia. You didn't sweeten yours. The bathroom felt all too familiar. I gripped the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Ugly tears streamed down my face. "Teddy," I cried out. I felt needy.
Even though it was a place we'd visited just a single time, it still carried our shared experience. And every experience we shared was so beautiful. Just that one lunch was special, even though it may have been mundane at the time – you and I never let anything be insignificant. I remembered sharing our plates, passing them back and forth. "I win!" one of us would claim, happier with our own meal. Then, we'd swap dishes, making sure the other person got half of the winner. I stood in that bathroom so alone yesterday. I knew that the last time I'd walked out of that stall, I'd walked back to you sitting at the table where now a stranger was seated, unbeknownst to my pain. And this time, I'd walk back to a buzzer buzzing to let me know that my salad, for one person, was ready. And that there would be no you to share it with from across the table. No you to win.
Coming back to the house after nearly a week of traveling and wandering has been heavy. Things are in order, thanks to compassionate friends and family, but items are starting to be put in different places. And to be completely honest, it's irritating me. Your Playboy magazines peep at me throughout every bathroom stack. They used to always be on top, your favorite 'reading' material, but now they've moved lower in the tiers; family and guests have shifted them more out of sight. I always loved that you read Playboy, one of your boyish habits that kept you unpredictable. In the kitchen, the salt and pepper shaker isn't in the window sill where you kept them, tidily. The olive oil is left on the counter, instead of put back in the pantry. The food in the fridge isn't organized in the way you put it and the selection has shifted. I think your almond butter has been eaten. 'Justin's,' we would call it – an inside joke, because the brand was actually 'Justine's' and I'd pronounced it incorrectly one day. We just decided that's what we'd call it instead, 'Justin's', no mind the mistake.
You always adored my incorrect pronunciations or mashed up linguistic expressions. A few months ago we sat on the couch in the den. "Killed two birds of a feather together!" I said, after booking airplane travel and a car rental on one website for an upcoming trip. The edges of your eyes brightened, your smile lines deepening, "I think you mean, 'Killed two birds with one stone,'" you said, "or maybe, 'Birds of a feather flock together,' but that doesn't really make sense." I blushed. You laughed. We both looked at each other and at the same time said, "Samanthics!" It was our made-up word for Samantha-semantics. They occurred often enough to deserve a nickname. You never criticized me when I made a mistake. You'd correct me maybe fifty percent of the time, but often let it slide with just a hint of an all-knowing smile on your face. You appreciated my imagination just as much as proper English.
Now I'm sitting on the same couch in our den where we booked those tickets. We were planning our trip to Chicago, which we took just weeks before your death. We went to visit your new, and unexpectedly early arriving nephew, William. We flew directly to Chicago. I got very nauseous on the flight, you rubbed my back and made sure I stayed hydrated. We took a taxi to your sister Berkley and her husband, Bob's, house in Roscoe Village. The taxi ride was more nauseating then the flight. When we arrived, my headache disappeared and the joyous reunion with your sister and my great friend/someday-sister-in-law ensued. I'd never been to her house before.
We laughed as we told Berkley and Bob the story of how I'd lied to my mom on the first night you and I had gotten together, nearly two years prior, also in Chicago. It was the night of the first Pink Party, a fundraiser Berk and Bob hosted for their late baby girl, Jane. They'd created a foundation in honor of Jane and were raising money for local maternity wards. We had both come to Chicago independently to support them. That was the night I reconnected with you after nearly sixteen years.
I'd told my mother that I'd gone back to Berk and Bob's house and fallen asleep on the couch until six a.m after the party, which was why I hadn't come back to the hotel room my mom and I were sharing. The truth was, I'd spent that night with you, in your hotel room at the Trump International after the Pink Party. A night that was prompted by flirty conversation, champagne, and you looking incredibly dashing in a well-fitting suit and a pink tie. I claimed I was on a 'man-strike', coming off a terrible breakup and a questionable choice in a previous partner. You ended my strike. I suddenly wished I'd shaved over the past month, an act that was supposed to prevent me from entering into a situation such as this one. My self control was drunk and disorderly.
That night that turned into the early morning too quickly. You whisked me past the concierge into your room, a suite I didn't know at the time was adjoined with your parent's suite. The turn-down service had left opera playing. We made love to an aria. We whispered, laughed, and told each other our deepest secrets until the sun began to rise. I kissed you goodbye and left, hair a mess, shoes in-hand, a run-of-the-mill walk of shame from the concierge's perspective. But it was a night that couldn't end there, because the next day, as I reconnected with my mom in Chicago and you flew to Florida with your family, we couldn't stop thinking about each other. Lust skipped in my stomach like a bouncy ball. I thought of the fancy suite and the good sex, but more, I thought of the laughter, the conversation, and simply the way you made me feel when I'd shared my secrets with you. As we continued to converse after that night: through texts, Facebook, phone calls, and online hangouts – we nervously agreed that the lust wasn't fading, that we had more in common then we knew how to handle, and that we had to give this, us, fate, a shot.
A year and a half later, Berkley and Bob welcomed a healthy baby into their lives. We were there, in their home, the day William came home from the hospital. We watched them, nervous new parents, as they sat his carrier on the kitchen counter. The cat sniffed him cautiously. The dog hid in a corner, nervous about the new noises, the new smells, and the audience. Berk and Bob watched their baby, hand-in-hand, not sure what to do next, they looked around like, 'OK. Baby's here. What now?' They'd been waiting for years for a healthy child in their life. They'd experienced a grievous and painful journey to get there, and now they were there. Still missing their daughter, but delirious at the arrival of their son. Ted, you took one photo with William on that trip. You held and oogled him. My ovaries screamed at me with giddy excitement as I watched you cuddle your nephew, a pure tiny infant. You looked over at me, "Uh oh!" you said when you saw my face, turned on by the sight of my soul mate loving on a baby. We laughed, a knowing laugh. We were both excited – for William, for Berkley and Bob, and for the future and cousins we would create someday.
You died less than a month after that trip. You died before knowing that your other sister, Hopie, was also going to give you a new nephew. You died before knowing what I could give you. And now I sit here, on our couch, in our den, snuggled up in a blanket that is made for two. A blanket we used to playfully fight over, and then share, both winning, as we sat, watching a sitcom at the end of our day. Now I have no one to share the blanket with, no one to share my meal with, no one to book travel with, no one to tell me not to end this sentence with a preposition with, and no one to fantasize about our future family with. I have lost and I am aimless.
I see your things. I can't walk into my closet without walking through yours. I see your shirts – hung meticulously and color-coded ready for your next wear. I see your hats – arranged in order of preference on a shelf meant for shoes, still smelling of your sweat and hair. I see your yoga shorts – waiting for your next Downward Facing Dog and quickly improving Kundinyasana. I see your pajama pants – the ones that say 'Dog Gone Tired' with cartoons of sleepy pups that you would lounge in on our lazy days. Your towel still hangs on its hook by the shower. I have been using it to dry off. Some days I don't though, instead I just grab it between my hands and smell it as deeply as I can, as if maybe I'll find you in the scent. I'm looking for you in everything, Teddy.
Yesterday I walked into a restaurant we only went to once. I was there to pick up some to-go salads for April and I. I made a quick choice on what to eat, my appetite is nothing like it used to be. I didn't allow my eyes arrive to the spot on the menu that contained sandwiches, because I knew that's what we'd shared that day we dined there together a few months ago. Conscious avoidance is key for me right now. They handed me a buzzer to notify me of my order being up. Damn, this was so familiar.
Buzzer in hand I walked over to the high-top tables to wait. I saw the table we'd sat in that day. I studied the man who was sitting there alone now. I noticed how much he was not you. I felt the new and familiar sense of panic land in my gut. I was about to cry. I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in before the tears hit. It was a single restroom and in the midst of my onset of panic, I remembered how I'd gone pee three times during our lunch together that day. We'd been drinking hibiscus tea throughout our meal. I'd sweetened mine with stevia. You didn't sweeten yours. The bathroom felt all too familiar. I gripped the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Ugly tears streamed down my face. "Teddy," I cried out. I felt needy.
Even though it was a place we'd visited just a single time, it still carried our shared experience. And every experience we shared was so beautiful. Just that one lunch was special, even though it may have been mundane at the time – you and I never let anything be insignificant. I remembered sharing our plates, passing them back and forth. "I win!" one of us would claim, happier with our own meal. Then, we'd swap dishes, making sure the other person got half of the winner. I stood in that bathroom so alone yesterday. I knew that the last time I'd walked out of that stall, I'd walked back to you sitting at the table where now a stranger was seated, unbeknownst to my pain. And this time, I'd walk back to a buzzer buzzing to let me know that my salad, for one person, was ready. And that there would be no you to share it with from across the table. No you to win.
Coming back to the house after nearly a week of traveling and wandering has been heavy. Things are in order, thanks to compassionate friends and family, but items are starting to be put in different places. And to be completely honest, it's irritating me. Your Playboy magazines peep at me throughout every bathroom stack. They used to always be on top, your favorite 'reading' material, but now they've moved lower in the tiers; family and guests have shifted them more out of sight. I always loved that you read Playboy, one of your boyish habits that kept you unpredictable. In the kitchen, the salt and pepper shaker isn't in the window sill where you kept them, tidily. The olive oil is left on the counter, instead of put back in the pantry. The food in the fridge isn't organized in the way you put it and the selection has shifted. I think your almond butter has been eaten. 'Justin's,' we would call it – an inside joke, because the brand was actually 'Justine's' and I'd pronounced it incorrectly one day. We just decided that's what we'd call it instead, 'Justin's', no mind the mistake.
You always adored my incorrect pronunciations or mashed up linguistic expressions. A few months ago we sat on the couch in the den. "Killed two birds of a feather together!" I said, after booking airplane travel and a car rental on one website for an upcoming trip. The edges of your eyes brightened, your smile lines deepening, "I think you mean, 'Killed two birds with one stone,'" you said, "or maybe, 'Birds of a feather flock together,' but that doesn't really make sense." I blushed. You laughed. We both looked at each other and at the same time said, "Samanthics!" It was our made-up word for Samantha-semantics. They occurred often enough to deserve a nickname. You never criticized me when I made a mistake. You'd correct me maybe fifty percent of the time, but often let it slide with just a hint of an all-knowing smile on your face. You appreciated my imagination just as much as proper English.
Now I'm sitting on the same couch in our den where we booked those tickets. We were planning our trip to Chicago, which we took just weeks before your death. We went to visit your new, and unexpectedly early arriving nephew, William. We flew directly to Chicago. I got very nauseous on the flight, you rubbed my back and made sure I stayed hydrated. We took a taxi to your sister Berkley and her husband, Bob's, house in Roscoe Village. The taxi ride was more nauseating then the flight. When we arrived, my headache disappeared and the joyous reunion with your sister and my great friend/someday-sister-in-law ensued. I'd never been to her house before.
We laughed as we told Berkley and Bob the story of how I'd lied to my mom on the first night you and I had gotten together, nearly two years prior, also in Chicago. It was the night of the first Pink Party, a fundraiser Berk and Bob hosted for their late baby girl, Jane. They'd created a foundation in honor of Jane and were raising money for local maternity wards. We had both come to Chicago independently to support them. That was the night I reconnected with you after nearly sixteen years.
I'd told my mother that I'd gone back to Berk and Bob's house and fallen asleep on the couch until six a.m after the party, which was why I hadn't come back to the hotel room my mom and I were sharing. The truth was, I'd spent that night with you, in your hotel room at the Trump International after the Pink Party. A night that was prompted by flirty conversation, champagne, and you looking incredibly dashing in a well-fitting suit and a pink tie. I claimed I was on a 'man-strike', coming off a terrible breakup and a questionable choice in a previous partner. You ended my strike. I suddenly wished I'd shaved over the past month, an act that was supposed to prevent me from entering into a situation such as this one. My self control was drunk and disorderly.
That night that turned into the early morning too quickly. You whisked me past the concierge into your room, a suite I didn't know at the time was adjoined with your parent's suite. The turn-down service had left opera playing. We made love to an aria. We whispered, laughed, and told each other our deepest secrets until the sun began to rise. I kissed you goodbye and left, hair a mess, shoes in-hand, a run-of-the-mill walk of shame from the concierge's perspective. But it was a night that couldn't end there, because the next day, as I reconnected with my mom in Chicago and you flew to Florida with your family, we couldn't stop thinking about each other. Lust skipped in my stomach like a bouncy ball. I thought of the fancy suite and the good sex, but more, I thought of the laughter, the conversation, and simply the way you made me feel when I'd shared my secrets with you. As we continued to converse after that night: through texts, Facebook, phone calls, and online hangouts – we nervously agreed that the lust wasn't fading, that we had more in common then we knew how to handle, and that we had to give this, us, fate, a shot.
A year and a half later, Berkley and Bob welcomed a healthy baby into their lives. We were there, in their home, the day William came home from the hospital. We watched them, nervous new parents, as they sat his carrier on the kitchen counter. The cat sniffed him cautiously. The dog hid in a corner, nervous about the new noises, the new smells, and the audience. Berk and Bob watched their baby, hand-in-hand, not sure what to do next, they looked around like, 'OK. Baby's here. What now?' They'd been waiting for years for a healthy child in their life. They'd experienced a grievous and painful journey to get there, and now they were there. Still missing their daughter, but delirious at the arrival of their son. Ted, you took one photo with William on that trip. You held and oogled him. My ovaries screamed at me with giddy excitement as I watched you cuddle your nephew, a pure tiny infant. You looked over at me, "Uh oh!" you said when you saw my face, turned on by the sight of my soul mate loving on a baby. We laughed, a knowing laugh. We were both excited – for William, for Berkley and Bob, and for the future and cousins we would create someday.
You died less than a month after that trip. You died before knowing that your other sister, Hopie, was also going to give you a new nephew. You died before knowing what I could give you. And now I sit here, on our couch, in our den, snuggled up in a blanket that is made for two. A blanket we used to playfully fight over, and then share, both winning, as we sat, watching a sitcom at the end of our day. Now I have no one to share the blanket with, no one to share my meal with, no one to book travel with, no one to tell me not to end this sentence with a preposition with, and no one to fantasize about our future family with. I have lost and I am aimless.
Mr. Chipmunk
Since you've been gone, you have only shown up in nightmares. My therapist tells me that the nightmares are occurring because my mind knows there's been a trauma involving you, so it spends the whole night imagining the worst case scenario. Unfortunately for my imagination, reality is worse. But I've spent many a night over the past three weeks seeing you cheat on me with other women, tell me you didn't love me, come to me as a ghost reminding me that you are dead, break up with me, turn your back on me when I'm crying, and die over and over again. The nightmares have been better than the waking moments because at least I get to see you, but painful nonetheless.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
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