THE TIME OF GREATEST DANGER may be past. Even so, I broke down twice this morning. Not long but solid, aching face and all. I’ve learned to let it hit me like a breaker at the beach. Sometimes I get murdered as I’m walking past her English “gram’s” cherry dresser, the one we carried back from Iowa to Maryland in my ‘65 VW bus along with all the fancy hats from never married great-aunt Emily. It’s chest-high with a Chimayó weaving, the perfect height for me to sob on by the Japanese jewelry chest and music box that holds her pearls and rhinestone concert necklace. She always knew to dress up right for her performances and I was so damn proud.
I haven’t been able to write for weeks. I felt like I had nothing left to live for, not depression so much as conviction. It was simply logical. There will never be another Katie Jane and I’m too old to find one. The loneliness is crushing. I wanted to grow old together, not be left here all alone. It hits me at the oddest moments. What the fuck, you know? What happened?!? Everything I had was Kathy. That was way more than enough and now it’s gone, like old cartoons with someone hanging in the air.
“Death will fuck you up and set you up 💀💀💀❤️❤️☯︎☯︎☯︎,” I tweeted recently. It’s true. A couple people I respect went out of their way to tell me how amazed they were that I was dealing with all this and couldn’t imagine what they’d do themselves. Well yes, I guess I have been. Not my first time watching someone die, though this was utterly beyond the pale and changed me for all time. I did the things, they burned her up and put her ashes in a box. I sold her grand piano.1 Working entirely through texts and emails, I designed a grave marker, ordered the pink granite stone2, and arranged the installation in the dark brown dirt of eastern Iowa where her parents and the lady with the cherry dresser rest. That hasn’t happened yet but soon. And in the interim, I found the perfect urn. I’m so relieved because I know she’d like it.
You’d never guess where I acquired this. Heavy cast brass (five pounds) from India, lacquered, with a screw-on top. I wanted that because of needing to add things as I thought of them. A note, perhaps, or jewelry, or magic charms, wildflowers I pick along the road to Iowa in the spring. Yes, spring. I was going to head up to Keota this month but everything’s delayed3 and the weather can turn brutal in November. The same for April, frankly.
The subject is already too macabre or insane. However, what I think I’ll do is transfer the ashes to the urn packaged in a sturdy plastic bag for neatness’ sake (minus some to scatter in a favorite spot), set it on the counter or a coffee table, and talk to her all winter. It’s been done, believe me. Whenever I do take off, the urn is riding safely strapped down in the passenger seat like old times. My sister-in-law suggested I buy one for myself while I was at it—brilliant, if you ask me—so a red one just like this is coming in on Wednesday. The plan, if you’re still with me here, is to have my urn sitting on my desk for however many years to kick me in the head so I make Kathy proud. I never needed thoughts like these before and wish I didn’t now, but people say I’m good at this. Perhaps I am.
It’s never over, is it. You see the OpenSea links. That’s my new game, with the photos and the writing. I know I’m skilled beyond the dead wife chores that give me strength to be her man the way I always was. I’m spending money on the things I want.
There’s a brand-new yellow M1 iMac on my desk to edit images, videos, audio, and lay out books. A gold iPhone 13 Pro Max is on the way. I put new tires on the car. I have a golden keyboard. If only that were all we needed. One can still screw up, of course.
It’s cold. Fear of the unknown, wreckage everywhere. The last six weeks have been the worst of all, so bad I’d go to bed afraid that I was dying of my broken heart. That’s why I couldn’t write and wouldn’t read a thing that wasn’t on a screen. Stayed up till 4:00 a.m. like a goddamn human moth stuck onto the Twitter feed. Four hours of sleep and stagger through the morning, though I did try taking care of business while the sun was up. Visited her studio, measured the other piano that I mean to keep, talked to movers, threw out old tax returns and such. I’ve made a start and also done some crazy shit. So scared of catching COVID on the Iowa trip I figured I’d be taking in October, I drove to Colorado and lied at Walmart to get my third Moderna shot. “Is this your first?” Why, yes. No one else was getting vaccinated, either! The pharmacy had Pfizer, Moderna, J&J, just walk right in, no waiting or appointments. (Here in the Land of Enchantment, you still can’t get Moderna boosters.) They gave me a flu shot, too.
My sister Mary from Tucson visited for a few days. She’s coming out of retirement to go back to her nursing job in Texas and we talked about real things. She was excited about taking control again a year and a half after her divorce. Dare to hope and feel, you know. It was rough for me the first day. The second day I loosened up a bit. By the time she left, I felt better than I had in weeks.
Apparently I breathe. The blood still pumps, the gift of life remains.
It does? But why—oh, God! I don’t have to die because my Kathy did. If this doesn’t cross a barrier, she and I have both hiked right up to it. I couldn’t save her, but I didn’t kill her. For all the shame I’ve felt for being such a baggage-laden piece of work while she was still alive, she doesn’t blame me now and never did!
Not once. Not ever.
Fear of nothing!
Punishment is self-delivered.
We aren’t what we think we are.
Everything’s all right.
As traumatic as that was, her beloved Kawai RX-3 went to a very good home in Santa Fe. A retired professional musician from California was ecstatic to have found it, made a decent offer, and plays it every day. Nothing would have pleased her more.
Matches the other family gravestones, same font for the lettering.
Probably due to a backlog of gravestone orders from COVID deaths (!) and other pandemic-related hassles for the monument maker in St. Cloud, MN.
One breath, one thing,
At a time.
Be well, John.
I read somewhere once that "Life belongs to the living." I think she'd be proud of the way you are managing her transition and yours. I suspect she'd want you to let go a little bit more each day so you can live to the fullest even in her absence. Guys like us, who find the right soul to be at our sides, we are the lucky ones. Few get as many quality years together as Kathy and you. Make sure the ones ahead of you have as much happiness as she'd want you to have.