At Last He Speaks Part II

This morning, I remembered I have a son, and ran to dig a hat out of the bench in the dining room so he wouldn't freeze to death on his walk home.  Hurrying while only half-dressed, I held up the bench top with one hand while studiously looking away, so as not to have to see Cory's bright pink purse that keeps watch on its cushion.  With my other hand, I blindly hunted for a knit hat, and pulled one out just as Tim came in the back door from starting my car.

I looked down to see one of Cory's hats in my hand.  Tim saw it, and said, "Her sc-at?"

Yes, it was a pretty brown, cream, and fuchsia scarf and hat sewn into one cozy piece. Her...scat. Cory wearing it?  Almost too cute for words, all big green eyes and creamy white skin.

To Tim, I nodded.  "Yeah."  I squeaked out, sniffed it once, and shoved it rudely away from my body, trading it out for one of Jake's striped hats.

This is just one example of the little deaths we die as we move about our day.

I know, I know.  The cynic out there says, "Why don't you get rid of her things?"

I can't.

So I finished dressing, slapped on some I-am-okay-don't-worry-about-me makeup (which usually consists of strong eyeliner and a bright lipstick...which sounds suspiciously like a hooker, if I really stop to think about it), and dragged myself to work where I had a baseline miserable day.

I busied myself with some repetitive tasks and tried not to see her face.

As I worked today, I remembered Tim coming in after working late last night, and waking me up.  He was crying.  A lot.

Tim cried after the accident.  I don't remember it much, just him stumbling around the house with toilet paper hanging out of both his nostrils.  I don't remember talking to him.  I don't remember him talking to me.

 I picked flowers.  He buried her cat.  I threw up in the funeral home's bathroom.  He chose her casket.  I walked around in shock, not knowing where I was or what was happening.  He cut the check for her plot.  He ordered the food for the ghastly luncheon.  I chose the music for her service.  Tim fed Jacob, fed the dog, fed the cats, and took the garbage out.  I fell down.  A lot.  For a really, really long time.

Well, last night, Tim sobbed so hard it shook the bed.  And, finally, finally...he spoke.  What did he say about my girl?  What did he say about her?

"I miss her so much!she was such a good girl, such a good, good girl...she was so thoughtful...she made everything fun...nothing's fun anymore...how are we supposed to do this?  how do people even do this?  ...it's not the same!  it's never gonna be the same!  we can't be happy!  we'll never be happy!  I don't want her to be dead!!"

I bawled right along beside him, answering, "I don't know!"  and "I know we won't!"  to his questions.  That's truth right there.

Eff this life.  And the holidays, too.  Eff the holidays.  And grocery shopping.  Screw the store.