One Year

Today has been one year since Jerry died. I don’t like to revisit unpleasantness, but want to mark this day in some way for such a wonderful husband and father. His presence when he entered a life, or even a room, changed those who experienced him forever. I am lucky to have been the one closest to him, and am forever changed and strengthened because of it.

Last year when his ashes were delivered to me, my wonderful daughter came for support, and I suspected I might need her. We opened the door exactly at the allotted time to see a small box carried by Pee Wee Herman. Not really, of course, but the funeral home rep was small with cropped hair, pointy nose, mischievous eyes and a bow tie. Without sacrificing respect he carried out his duties in an upbeat manner. He even offered to help us see if the ashes would fit the favorite of two containers my friend Pat and I had purchased. It was close, but “Pee Wee” said he could usually “massage” these things into place. And he did. Surely Jerry had something to do with his delivery by the most perfect messenger. I put his card away in my Red Book of information and told Amy to be sure and call him personally when it is my time.

Maybe this is the time to post a poem I wrote this year and then back to living a life that takes all its parts in stride, including the ones that hurt.

Profound Pronouns

Must remember to say

I, not we

Me, not us

Mine, not ours

Was, not is

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Hadley Hemmingway & Me

Hadley Hemmingway, Ernest’s first wife said this of him, according to her biographer:

Meeting Hemmingway at a party in Chicago, she told Alice Sokoloff, was a great ‘explosion into life.’ He was the first person to see deeply into her true nature, and in a rueful irony, he helped her find the strong sense of self that sustained her through their breakup.

I was so struck by this passage. Substitute Jerry and “his death” for “breakup” and you have my husband’s gift to me.

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After

No coffee flavor wafts into the bedroom in the morning—

 Cat fur coats his pillow—

 The dinner dishes sit unmoved an hour later—

 The small wad of cash in my purse is no longer enough— 

It’s a darker dark when the power goes out—

 Pockets have new purpose, holding keys and cash at times—

 Short trips in the car increase threefold: his, mine and ours—

 Cats now go in and out the screened porch door forty times a day—

 Cell phone operation is still a mystery—

 The GPS is comfort and a modicum of freedom—

Emma mysteriously appears before the first tear reaches the cheek–

 A familiar voice on the answering machine says every day, “I’ll see you later.”

 Yes, yes, you will.

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Little Things

A house unchanged , a house totally changed. I have time, lots of time to sort through a lifetime of possessions and I move at the speed of one with a long, lazy road before her. There is no hurry to eradicate the past, to decide what is important and not. No hurry, yet it begins to happen naturally, and what is important surprises. Of all the items piled in the corner of the table the largest is the size of a saltine cracker.  

 

 

 

The worry stone  Hannah slipped quietly into my hand as the memorial service began. “Hold this, Ahmaw, ” my granddaughter said, “It will keep you calm.”

 

His wallet. You have to open these things that have always been  a place you do not go. But you are there–a tiny picture from long ago.

 

 

 

 

 

His wedding ring. So it was the third in a line of replacements, the others lost who knows where.

 

 

 

 

The ubiquitous golf balls. 

 

 

 

Oh yeah, and the Mile High Club pin.

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