Saturday, October 8, 2011

Walks in the neighborhood . . .

Walking Rocco the other day, I encounter a neighbor, a man I've met several times already, lives around the corner from me. We often pass each other as we walk our dogs through the park near the house I am now living in (I initially typed "my house," there, but immediately, it looked and felt all wrong. This is not my house, or my life. I don't think I will ever get used to any of this. . .). Sometimes we stop to chit-chat a bit, other times we simply wave from across the park.

Today, he's standing outside with his grown son, I stop to exchange a few words, and eventually, he asks, "So, what's your sweetie's name?" Sweetie? I thought he was asking about Rocco, and then it suddenly hit me. My sweetie. He's asking about a significant other. Shit . . . no way around these scenarios. His name is Bob, he died in May. I tell him with a voice that's not my own, with words that shouldn't belong to me, but do, fiercely. "Oh," he says, his voice changes abruptly, clearly not expecting this answer. "Well, he went through the same thing," jerking a thumb toward his son. "His woman left him, and stole his dog, too. . ." shaking his head. I stare at him. Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think "his woman left him" and adding a stolen dog for effect, is even remotely similar to my husband dying? No, no, no, I scream all of this at him, in my head. . . "Left him" means someone had a choice in the matter, "left him" means he probably will still see his woman, that they might have a chance at getting back together, slim as it may be. It's very possible he'll get his dog back, at the very least. What part of "died" don't you get?!? "Died" means neither of us had a choice in this matter, "died" means there isn't even a slim chance I will ever see my sweetie again, much less, a chance to be with him again . . . .

I don't remember exchanging good-byes, maybe used Rocco as my excuse to continue my walk, but I do remember feeling that it's often easier to not talk to strangers. The widow thing freaks people out, myself included, makes them, us, say strange things. What I just said (or didn't say) to my neighbor was such a dishonor to Bob, to all he was, and all we had, the good, the bad and the ugly, and suddenly I am thinking, I have to tell everyone I meet that not only am I a widow, but my husband was only 44 when he died, and had the most beautiful brown eyes and the silkiest Superman-black hair that I loved to run my fingers through . . he possessed the sharpest wit, a most wicked sense of humor and could infuriate me like nobody could . . . but was the best person I have ever had the honor to know in this life on earth, that he died an awful death that is the stuff of nightmares, but fought his incurable disease like nothing I will ever witness again on this Earth, right till the end, I loved him, still love him, would have taken care of him and his broken body forever, if I had been given the choice. . .

On the rest of my walk I think of how horribly inept the English language is. We say died, and love, and widow, but mean nothing when we say them. To have one word that would sum it all up for me, tell our story, who Bob was, what he meant and still means to me, how he died, would be o-so helpful, for me, for everyone I encounter. But I can't tell his story, our story, to everyone I meet. I will just have to learn to be okay with the fact that most people will never have the honor to learn who my sweetie was. . . and somehow be okay with how very tragic that is.

3 comments:

  1. Oh my God Jen that is powerful. Such wisdom, appreciation, and love for the life you had with Bob. On a whim today I checked your blog!
    So few experience yours and Bob's kind of love in their lifetime. And no it isn't possible to tell everyone you meet your story and give honor to Bob's memory...but know that what you carry in your heart is reflected in your beautiful face for those who choose to see.
    Your nieces and nephew are so fortunate to have an auntie like you in their lives.
    I keep secretly hoping to run into you in St.Paul one day.

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  2. I have a poem I want to share with you, Jen... I read it in a poetry anthology, beloved on the earth: 150 poems of grief and gratitude. Hope you like it, Terri


    Life After Death
    by Laura Gilpin

    These things I know:
    How the living go on living
    and how the dead go on living with them
    so that in a forest
    even a dead tree casts a shadow
    and the leaves fall one by one
    and the branches break into the wind
    and the bark peels off slowly
    and the trunk cracks
    and the rain seeps in through the cracks

    and the trunk falls to the ground
    and the moss covers it
    and in the spring the rabbits find it
    and build their nest
    inside the dead tree
    so that nothing is wasted in nature
    or in love.

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  3. Love you, Nenni, and Bubo. I am privileged to have had the honor of knowing your sweetie, the love you two shared, and how he continues to impact your life. Love you so much, and miss Bubo so much. Amelia still says prayers to Bubo each night, asking him to watch over you and his family.

    Love always,
    xoxoxoxo
    Jilly

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