Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I have always found it difficult to live in the moment and enjoy spending life planning what's next. I have trouble staying focused on one thing and tend to multitask – often in front of multiple screens. For instance right now, I'm booking air travel, texting about yoga class, responding to email, drinking coffee, people watching, writing this, oh, and mourning intensely. You struggled with ADD as a student and continued to as an adult, but despite your diagnosis of lack of focus, I never met a man who was more patient.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
Showing posts with label inspiring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspiring. Show all posts
Destination Boulder
It's cold and snowy today. Winter has arrived. It's more frigid then ever.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
I Will Not Be Strong (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
Over
the last two and a half weeks since my brother died, people have said
to me, “you need to be strong.” Or complemented me: “Wow, you are so
strong.” They say it as they see me doing the things required of
me—taking my children to school, picking up groceries, organizing the
house, calling my parents and my sister, Berkley, to check in.
But strong is not what I want to be right now.
Ted
was my brother. He was my lifelong companion. Besides my parents, he
knew me the longest and the most completely. In high school, when people
asked me to name my best friend, I said Ted. He was there on every
family vacation, every Christmas, every family dinner. He was my bridesman at my wedding. He and Berkley are a part of me like no one else will ever be.
I
will not be strong because losing a brother should completely wreck
you. It should send you to your knees over and over again. It should
make you fall to pieces on your bedroom floor, force tears from your
eyes in the middle of a fitness class. It should make you cry every time
you drive to the grocery store and once inside the store, you will dry
your tears and you will tell yourself you can do this, you can do this, when all you’re trying to do is buy cereal. This grief should make you wonder if you will ever be okay again.
Weak with grief is what I want to be because that is what the loss of this relationship deserves.
In
tragic times, we assume that we need someone to stay strong so that
everyone else around them can fall apart. This time, it will not be me.
The truth is, I don’t think there needs to be a strong one. The most
supported I’ve felt in the last few weeks is when Sami, Berkley and I
laid on my Aunt Ginny’s bed the day that Ted died. We were a heap of
tears, hair, blankets and sobs. No one was being the strong one. We
cried together, shoulders shaking, tears flowing—there were no words of
comfort, no strong one to hold us together. Because this kind of loss
should make you completely fall apart.
I
understand why they say it—they want to see strength so they can be
assured that we will survive this. They need not worry. We will survive.
Sami, Berkley, my parents, friends: we will even thrive.
Someday,
I will have to choose strength. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. Or
maybe I will choose strength for an hour or two a day. Strength will
come and healing will come—people who I trust have told me this. But for
now, I will be weak with grief. Because I lost Ted. I lost my brother.
And my weakness is my best and boldest tribute to who he was and what we
had.
Happy Birthday
That night, after the ambulances finally arrived, 16 gut-wrenching minutes after I called 911, our house was swarmed with EMS, detectives, police, sirens, lights-flashing. Kevin and I had followed every single instruction from the dispatcher in those long minutes. 700 chest compressions, Kevin had counted them without missing a beat. I had checked your airways repeatedly in case you were choking. You'd only eaten a few bites of yogurt and washed it down with some coconut milk. Your airways were clear, you weren't choking. What was wrong? At one point you took three very, very faint and raspy breaths. The vice-grip in my chest loosened, "He's breathing! He's breathing!" We stopped compressions. No more breaths. Kevin started them again. I called your name repeatedly, put my hand in yours, you didn't respond. No eyes. No grip. No breath. Nothing. You were talking to me one second, and then you were gone the next. I had said, "What are you most afraid of?" You said, "Anger." Then you were gone.
When the first sheriff arrived, I could tell he was nervous. Boulder cops don't see this often. He fumbled with the CPR mask. I couldn't believe he was bothering with it. HELP HIM NOW. I ran upstairs to let the EMS in. They were trying to back down our long driveway. "Just leave the ambulance there! Someone get inside NOW! Please! He's not breathing! PLEASSSSSE, " I cried, adrenaline pumping. What was probably only a minute seemed like ten. Then, suddenly, there were dozens of EMS and police in the basement. "Someone get this dog OUT of here," a policeman shouted. Kira was going back and forth between licking your face and barking at the men in hats. She loves you. I put her outside. "Who owns this house? Who lives here?" Unnecessary questions. "He does. We all live here," I said, numb. "I'm assuming you don't know this man's birthday," one of them shouted at me. "Of course I do. November 5, 1979," I answered his non-question. Assholes. Help him, please. I watched them drill a hole in your perfect leg, right by your Scorpio tattoo, and yell "Clear!" as they shocked your heart. Then they made us go upstairs to answer questions. Kevin held me tightly, holding me upright, reminding me to breath. He did everything right.
Happy birthday Teddy, my love. My hands are shaking as I type. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I have been keeping a list of gifts for you in my phone for the past 6 months. Every time you've mentioned something you've wanted, liked, or thought was 'cool', I've written it down. You are a hard man to shop for because if you really want something, you can get it for yourself. I had already purchased many of your gifts for your birthday and Christmas. I'd gotten you two books you'd asked for: Heaven is Real, a story about a little boys trip to Heaven and back when he'd died for 3 minutes. (I've already read it over the past week. Now I believe in heaven, but only if I go to church. Strange, for a Jew.) I bought you A Wrinkle in Time, which you wanted to re-read as an adult and I thought was simply adorable. I'd been conferring with a couple members of your band to find the perfect case for your drum hardware. You'd been carrying it in an old ski-bag. It was to have handles and wheels and fit everything in the perfectly organized fashion you so loved.
I'd gotten you a pair of funny one-piece-footie-pajamas. They have a butt you can unsnap to use the bathroom. You would have thought they were hilarious. I imagined you wearing them on cold days after skiing when we were snuggled up drinking hot toddies by the fire. You, a 35 year old man, with the spirit and pjs of an 8-year-old. Along the same line, I'd gotten you a Phil Lewis coloring book for grown-ups. You mentioned how fun it would be to have one a few weeks ago to a friend. You didn't even know I was listening, but I was. You hated your iPhone case. It was hard to remove to charge and plug into the mp3 player and we always laughed because when you pulled out your phone other items in your pocket would stick to it, like your keys or wallet. I got you a new case, one that wasn't sticky rubber, with an Alex Grey painting on it called "Theologue". The painting is described as "The union of human and divine consciousness weaving the fabric of space and time in which the self and its surroundings are embedded". When it arrived in the mail I noticed the print wasn't perfectly centered, which I knew you'd notice. I considered returning it, but never did.
We had gone to Burning Man this past year and both loved the sculpture, Embrace. We hadn't seen it burn because it was at sunrise, and I was never very good at staying up until sunrise. You loved being up all night, seeing the sun peek over the playa, a new day ahead. I felt guilty and like I should be asleep. So we'd missed the burn and we never had a chance to go inside it. But, I'd gotten you a piece of it. Android Jones had done a limited print for Embrace. You had seem the tube arrive in the mail with "Andrew Jones" as the return sender. "I didn't mean to look! It just jumped out at me," you'd told me. I believed you. I knew you wanted another one of his prints to hang near the "Love is a Riot" piece I'd gotten you last year. I didn't know why that piece spoke to me so much at the time, but now it's ominous every time I walk by it hanging on our wall.
After our summer of non-stop travel last year, you'd mentioned wanting a new dopp kit. "I like how yours has a hanger and is bigger than mine," you'd said. Yours was organized perfectly, albeit smaller. Mine was gooey from stolen-hotel-shampoos leaking in air pressure. Mine had empty band-aid packs, always fooling us when we needed one. Yours had sensible items like Aleve, in case of a bad hangover and nail clippers for a hangnail. I always forgot Aleve, but had at least 3 or 4 perfumes even though I only ever wore the one, "Tainted Love," it's called. When we would go to a hotel together, I would move in, hoarding the vanity: hairbrushes, deodorant, oozing Colgate toothpaste, nail polish in case my gel manicure came off, curling iron accidentally left 'on', glitter spilled everywhere, lipstick left open, one fake eyelash in the sink, one on the floor that would later get stuck to your foot.
Your items would be perfectly laid out. Sonicare toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, Tom's deodorant, and maybe one hair product: all in a row. You'd walk into the bathroom, hand me a glass of champagne (you knew how much I loved getting ready in a hotel with a glass of champagne). I flail around getting ready, always running late for the reservation, meetup, or show. You'd joke, "Women get annoyed when men leave the toilet seat up, and this is what we get to deal with!" I'd laugh, totally in agreement, and knowing how ridiculous it was. I'd slide all my shit over to one side, probably knocking your items over and burning myself en-route, and say, "OK! Now you have half of the space." We'd giggle. You'd tell me I look beautiful. I'd complain about my hair and say I felt fat. You'd look at me and tell me my hair is beautiful and that you wouldn't even dare to address the second half of that statement. I'd spray my hair for the 4th time. You'd start dramatically coughing. I'd say "How much time do I have?" You'd say, "Negative 2 minutes." I'd look at my full glass of bubbles, and say, "Oh shit!" We'd share it, quickly, then dash out the door, hand in hand, down the elevator and off to the next thing, looking fucking beautiful and being so fucking in love, anyone in the lift with us would see it immediately. You'd look at me and I would know immediately that you were thinking of how funny it would be if you farted in the elevator. I'd widen my eyes in a don't you dare kind of way. You never did (at least when there were others in it with us).
I'd gotten you the new dopp kit for your birthday, handmade canvas and leather, with a hanger. It has a silver button with your initials monogrammed on it. We always laughed about how we'd monogram things. You go by Ted, but your name is actually David Edwin... DWE, DTW, TWE... TED? We'd laugh. "Maybe we just won't monogram anything," you'd say. You, the preppiest hippie that existed, not even believing yourself. "But we have to have monogrammed towels somedayyyyyy......" I'd carry the 'y' so there was no doubt you'd know what I meant. Someday, when we had a registry. Someday, when we were married. Someday, when I took your name and joined your family, by law. When we became officially "we". When I could take out my IUD and we could start trying for a family, and then have little wash clothes, with ducks on them, with little baby monograms. Someday, that won't ever come anymore.
Today we celebrate your birth. I try to keep reminding myself of that this morning. Birth, not death. Birth. Without today, I wouldn't have ever met him, loved him, had him as my best friend. Without today, neither of us would have ever known what love really is. And your birthday is even more important now than it was before. Because we're celebrating the birth of a man who is now an angel. You are looking down, in whatever way you can, and wrapping your grace around me and all of your loved ones. I try to see it in everything. I tried to see it when I woke up at 5 am and tossed and turned, and asked you to let me fall back asleep, and I did. I tried to see it when I awoke to both Beats, our cat, AND Kira, our dog, both on the bed, together, gently snoring, one on each side of me. They'd only gotten on the bed together two times before and I'd coerced them into it both times. I tried to see it when I opened the blinds and the sun blinded me completely, basking me in it's warmth. I'm trying, and I see your grace – but I can't prove it and that drives me crazy.
I wish you were here, Ted. I celebrated you everyday, completely devoted, but today I would have done it it even more. I would have brought you breakfast in bed: a breakfast salad, like you had everyday. 2 soft boiled eggs for you, 1 for me. But today I would have added bacon. And instead of your homemade health tonic dressing, today I would have given you avocado vinaigrette, your guilty pleasure. You would have had 2 pieces of dark chocolate after breakfast, a special morning treat. You'd joke about how it might keep you awake all day. I would have given you a present right away. One I was really excited about, maybe the Embrace print, and saved the others until later. I would bake you something sweet, you wouldn't care what because you aren't huge on sweets other than dark chocolate, so it probably would have been a pie, because I love to make (and eat) pie. It would have been the perfect day, just like every day was with you, back when I could see you and touch you and hear you. I love you, Ted. Happy birthday my sweet angel. I miss you so much.
When the first sheriff arrived, I could tell he was nervous. Boulder cops don't see this often. He fumbled with the CPR mask. I couldn't believe he was bothering with it. HELP HIM NOW. I ran upstairs to let the EMS in. They were trying to back down our long driveway. "Just leave the ambulance there! Someone get inside NOW! Please! He's not breathing! PLEASSSSSE, " I cried, adrenaline pumping. What was probably only a minute seemed like ten. Then, suddenly, there were dozens of EMS and police in the basement. "Someone get this dog OUT of here," a policeman shouted. Kira was going back and forth between licking your face and barking at the men in hats. She loves you. I put her outside. "Who owns this house? Who lives here?" Unnecessary questions. "He does. We all live here," I said, numb. "I'm assuming you don't know this man's birthday," one of them shouted at me. "Of course I do. November 5, 1979," I answered his non-question. Assholes. Help him, please. I watched them drill a hole in your perfect leg, right by your Scorpio tattoo, and yell "Clear!" as they shocked your heart. Then they made us go upstairs to answer questions. Kevin held me tightly, holding me upright, reminding me to breath. He did everything right.
Happy birthday Teddy, my love. My hands are shaking as I type. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I have been keeping a list of gifts for you in my phone for the past 6 months. Every time you've mentioned something you've wanted, liked, or thought was 'cool', I've written it down. You are a hard man to shop for because if you really want something, you can get it for yourself. I had already purchased many of your gifts for your birthday and Christmas. I'd gotten you two books you'd asked for: Heaven is Real, a story about a little boys trip to Heaven and back when he'd died for 3 minutes. (I've already read it over the past week. Now I believe in heaven, but only if I go to church. Strange, for a Jew.) I bought you A Wrinkle in Time, which you wanted to re-read as an adult and I thought was simply adorable. I'd been conferring with a couple members of your band to find the perfect case for your drum hardware. You'd been carrying it in an old ski-bag. It was to have handles and wheels and fit everything in the perfectly organized fashion you so loved.
I'd gotten you a pair of funny one-piece-footie-pajamas. They have a butt you can unsnap to use the bathroom. You would have thought they were hilarious. I imagined you wearing them on cold days after skiing when we were snuggled up drinking hot toddies by the fire. You, a 35 year old man, with the spirit and pjs of an 8-year-old. Along the same line, I'd gotten you a Phil Lewis coloring book for grown-ups. You mentioned how fun it would be to have one a few weeks ago to a friend. You didn't even know I was listening, but I was. You hated your iPhone case. It was hard to remove to charge and plug into the mp3 player and we always laughed because when you pulled out your phone other items in your pocket would stick to it, like your keys or wallet. I got you a new case, one that wasn't sticky rubber, with an Alex Grey painting on it called "Theologue". The painting is described as "The union of human and divine consciousness weaving the fabric of space and time in which the self and its surroundings are embedded". When it arrived in the mail I noticed the print wasn't perfectly centered, which I knew you'd notice. I considered returning it, but never did.
We had gone to Burning Man this past year and both loved the sculpture, Embrace. We hadn't seen it burn because it was at sunrise, and I was never very good at staying up until sunrise. You loved being up all night, seeing the sun peek over the playa, a new day ahead. I felt guilty and like I should be asleep. So we'd missed the burn and we never had a chance to go inside it. But, I'd gotten you a piece of it. Android Jones had done a limited print for Embrace. You had seem the tube arrive in the mail with "Andrew Jones" as the return sender. "I didn't mean to look! It just jumped out at me," you'd told me. I believed you. I knew you wanted another one of his prints to hang near the "Love is a Riot" piece I'd gotten you last year. I didn't know why that piece spoke to me so much at the time, but now it's ominous every time I walk by it hanging on our wall.
After our summer of non-stop travel last year, you'd mentioned wanting a new dopp kit. "I like how yours has a hanger and is bigger than mine," you'd said. Yours was organized perfectly, albeit smaller. Mine was gooey from stolen-hotel-shampoos leaking in air pressure. Mine had empty band-aid packs, always fooling us when we needed one. Yours had sensible items like Aleve, in case of a bad hangover and nail clippers for a hangnail. I always forgot Aleve, but had at least 3 or 4 perfumes even though I only ever wore the one, "Tainted Love," it's called. When we would go to a hotel together, I would move in, hoarding the vanity: hairbrushes, deodorant, oozing Colgate toothpaste, nail polish in case my gel manicure came off, curling iron accidentally left 'on', glitter spilled everywhere, lipstick left open, one fake eyelash in the sink, one on the floor that would later get stuck to your foot.
Your items would be perfectly laid out. Sonicare toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, Tom's deodorant, and maybe one hair product: all in a row. You'd walk into the bathroom, hand me a glass of champagne (you knew how much I loved getting ready in a hotel with a glass of champagne). I flail around getting ready, always running late for the reservation, meetup, or show. You'd joke, "Women get annoyed when men leave the toilet seat up, and this is what we get to deal with!" I'd laugh, totally in agreement, and knowing how ridiculous it was. I'd slide all my shit over to one side, probably knocking your items over and burning myself en-route, and say, "OK! Now you have half of the space." We'd giggle. You'd tell me I look beautiful. I'd complain about my hair and say I felt fat. You'd look at me and tell me my hair is beautiful and that you wouldn't even dare to address the second half of that statement. I'd spray my hair for the 4th time. You'd start dramatically coughing. I'd say "How much time do I have?" You'd say, "Negative 2 minutes." I'd look at my full glass of bubbles, and say, "Oh shit!" We'd share it, quickly, then dash out the door, hand in hand, down the elevator and off to the next thing, looking fucking beautiful and being so fucking in love, anyone in the lift with us would see it immediately. You'd look at me and I would know immediately that you were thinking of how funny it would be if you farted in the elevator. I'd widen my eyes in a don't you dare kind of way. You never did (at least when there were others in it with us).
I'd gotten you the new dopp kit for your birthday, handmade canvas and leather, with a hanger. It has a silver button with your initials monogrammed on it. We always laughed about how we'd monogram things. You go by Ted, but your name is actually David Edwin... DWE, DTW, TWE... TED? We'd laugh. "Maybe we just won't monogram anything," you'd say. You, the preppiest hippie that existed, not even believing yourself. "But we have to have monogrammed towels somedayyyyyy......" I'd carry the 'y' so there was no doubt you'd know what I meant. Someday, when we had a registry. Someday, when we were married. Someday, when I took your name and joined your family, by law. When we became officially "we". When I could take out my IUD and we could start trying for a family, and then have little wash clothes, with ducks on them, with little baby monograms. Someday, that won't ever come anymore.
Today we celebrate your birth. I try to keep reminding myself of that this morning. Birth, not death. Birth. Without today, I wouldn't have ever met him, loved him, had him as my best friend. Without today, neither of us would have ever known what love really is. And your birthday is even more important now than it was before. Because we're celebrating the birth of a man who is now an angel. You are looking down, in whatever way you can, and wrapping your grace around me and all of your loved ones. I try to see it in everything. I tried to see it when I woke up at 5 am and tossed and turned, and asked you to let me fall back asleep, and I did. I tried to see it when I awoke to both Beats, our cat, AND Kira, our dog, both on the bed, together, gently snoring, one on each side of me. They'd only gotten on the bed together two times before and I'd coerced them into it both times. I tried to see it when I opened the blinds and the sun blinded me completely, basking me in it's warmth. I'm trying, and I see your grace – but I can't prove it and that drives me crazy.
I wish you were here, Ted. I celebrated you everyday, completely devoted, but today I would have done it it even more. I would have brought you breakfast in bed: a breakfast salad, like you had everyday. 2 soft boiled eggs for you, 1 for me. But today I would have added bacon. And instead of your homemade health tonic dressing, today I would have given you avocado vinaigrette, your guilty pleasure. You would have had 2 pieces of dark chocolate after breakfast, a special morning treat. You'd joke about how it might keep you awake all day. I would have given you a present right away. One I was really excited about, maybe the Embrace print, and saved the others until later. I would bake you something sweet, you wouldn't care what because you aren't huge on sweets other than dark chocolate, so it probably would have been a pie, because I love to make (and eat) pie. It would have been the perfect day, just like every day was with you, back when I could see you and touch you and hear you. I love you, Ted. Happy birthday my sweet angel. I miss you so much.
Formaldehyde
I still woke up today. The sun still rose, flirting with the edges of the blinds, peeking in to let me know that despite the darkness in my heart, it was still casting red to pink to iridescent white light over the tops of the mountains. I got up, and made our bed again. I washed my hair for the first time in 4 days. What's the point? You can't run your fingers through it. The shower is so lonely without you.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
Daylight savings
It was daylight savings time this weekend. Now I'm waking up an hour earlier than we did: 6:30, naturally. You would have loved it. An extra hour in the morning, our favorite time of day together. We would be able to lay in bed, sharing and journaling our dreams, as we did nearly daily. We would be able to call Kira & Beats onto the bed, laughing about how Beats rules the roost as she would hiss a warning at Kira, who is only interested in loving her. We would kiss and embrace and maybe make gentle love. We would open the blinds and look outside, being thankful for the beautiful day, our scenic view. We would hear the wild turkeys and Beats would go on high alert. You would gently laugh as I struggled with the automatic blinds which were designed to be simple to operate.
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
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