Seeing Green.

My desk is stocked with green pens, the finest tip. Of all the art on my walls, it is the lush green stone cut lithograph that I prefer. When my parents eventually slide into that gentle good night, they are well aware that it is the expansive green stone cut on their wall that would ensure my fond remembrances, everlasting.

Of the features I awkwardly accept as my own, it is my eyes that I find most comfortable. Spring green in laughter. Dark forests in anger. The color of moss wet with sadness.

My birthstone is a gentle lime green, my dishes a set of pottery washed in the color of wet ferns. I am strong in the ivory skirt adorned with feathery leaves, adventurous in the tweed mini. In boarding school, I reveled in the forest green black watch kilt that swung far above the knees it was meant to reach.

One false move, and I’ll be covered in green ooze.

In 24 hours, the crystalline waters of my swimming pool have devolved into a cesspool of algae and stagnation. Koi would decline these waters, and at any moment I am expecting the Swamp Thing to emerge. And because I am “woman without able man,” it falls to me to … er … jump into the pool and find a solution to this fetid situation.

The thought of which has me feeling green and seeing red.

My home has reached a certain age where the bones are becoming brittle and the potential for hip replacements is increasingly likely. And in the past two weeks, I have seen green move from my hand to theirs as I’ve had to repair the air conditioner, the garage door and the irrigation system.

And now this. In the dead of summer. In the desert.

Which is why I am seeing green far beyond the algae-infested pool and the disappearing dollars. In the first chapter of my life, I never questioned why the house and the cars and the pool functioned without interruption. How bike tires were repaired, and sprinklers never stopped. And he never questioned why bedtimes were what they were, when bills were paid and why the work suitcase was in the hall again. Everything worked. Because we worked at it.

But since I have been left to fend for myself, the car has died, the pool is problematic, leaks linger on without stoppage and the garage full of tools has overwhelmed me with its lack of direction and purpose. Seemingly inconsequential needs have become insurmountable in frustration and, deep inside, the prideful and lonely part of me has accepted and struggled through uncharted territory, reluctant to ask for help and see inconvenience flash in eyes and mistrust in others.

While envy flashes in the green of mine.

'Til Death Us Do Part.

Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

-Celtic Woman

I didn’t see her sitting there, dressed in her finery amongst our family and friends, twisting our lifelines between her fingers as we vowed to build a life together. I did not see how mine trailed from her fingers alone while his was caught short in her palm.

I saw white tulips and snowy irises and felt creamy chiffon and the sweet smell of orange blossoms wrap around me in the warm dusk of late April. I heard strings in the air and gentle laughter. I saw our children in his eyes and I heard our future in his voice.

I wonder if she wondered as she held our fate in her hands.

Did she see how it would end? Did she know he would slip away without warning, without reason? Did she hear the questions they ask, and the innocent things they say to strangers? Did she count the tears that dropped and the sleepless nights?

I wonder if she watched me.

Did she see what trailed from her fingers? Did she watch me standing there in white and see me standing in black, Pachelbel on the violin fading to the mournful cry of Amazing Grace. Did she see the flowers in my hand and the flowers resting on the ground each April?

Did she watch me wrap myself in quiet dignity while anger seethed inside? Did she see me alone in the dark counting the minutes until morning? Did she see the food untouched and phone calls unanswered?

Did she see that moment that escaped me, when the bruises and angry scars began to fade? When tear-stained cheeks dried and sleep returned in part. Did she hear my laughter rejoin theirs, and did she smile softly as she saw life return to a life interrupted?

I wonder as she broke his string and twisted mine—did she break and twist with them?

Did she see my steps grow stronger and bolder? Did she see me archive the pages of chapters written and watch as ink began to stain the pages yet to be written? Did she watch as I stumbled into choosing a life not yet lived? Did she smile as she watched us laugh and love and live while she held our lifelines in her palm?

I wonder.

Did she see me watching her defiantly and silently across the gravestones as I laid white tulips in the grass again?

Jackie O So Mad.

One of the things that happens when you become, you know … a widow … is that you are suddenly and intensely aware that every move you make is analyzed, every word you utter is dissected, and every tear you shed is counted. And ever since Jackie O showed the world what grace under fire looks like, you’re either a Jackie O. 

Or you’re not.

Well, here’s a little secret. We may look and act like the epitome of grace and decorum on the outside, but on the inside we want to take our white-gloved hands and stuff a pillbox hat straight down the esophagus of each person who said “you were so polished and graceful. Just like Jackie O.”

I find grace and polish to be overrated. And always have. Right down to my boarding school-primed upbringing and my choice college education. Because there’s nothing fun about grace and polish 24/7, and because the expectations are exceedingly high, leaving no margin for error. That doesn’t mean you’ll see my white-trash-trailer-park side anytime soon, but I’m the sorority sister that knew the best frat parties and not the secret handshake. So, you’ll have to forgive my lack of polish, but there’s really no need to sugar coat the obvious.

I am pissed off. Not a little. A lot.

If you know me, you know that I have reached a point where neither grace nor polish can keep the lid on the pressure that has been building.

For 120 minutes now, I have listened to my six-year-old daughter scream sporadically in confusion and pain. Because of dental DNA I place squarely at my late husband’s genetic doorstep. Which will cost me four figures—before the decimal point. That will be a source of frustration and concern for her, ever after. For all the visits that my own pearly whites have endured because of the damage his early departure caused … and the residual carnage my restless mind ground to death while my body slept.  

For the odor that has lifted its way to my nostrils from the shoes of the woman sitting in the waiting room next to me while my ears have bled.

He is gone, a fact that I quietly digested, accepted and filed away years ago. While I am no longer angry that he’s gone, I am in moments like this exceptionally livid at what has been left behind. Monthly healthcare bills that extract more from my bank account than a mortgage payment yet cover less than a cable bill. Red tape that stretches on without reason. A house I never wanted and that I am unable to leave. Questions I no longer wish to answer. A life I want to live that is just beyond my reach.

And now this.  

For now I’ll wear grace and polish, like wet clothes dampening the rage underneath. And I’ll wear it when she wraps her arms around me, tears falling into my neck. But tonight, when the house is dark and silent, the tears that I held back with a mother’s grace and strength will fall with an woman’s unpolished weakness, hot with pain and cold with loneliness. And I will cry as much for her as for the empty darkness that surrounds me where strong arms do not. But before my tears fall, I will dry hers.

With a McFlurry.

Don't Rock the Boat.

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.

For his entire existence, my son has been fueled by an engine that spends its time in one of two gears – stop or go. And stop only seems to happen at bedtime. Otherwise, it is go, go, go. 

I’ve actually thought about whether or not a seatbelt could be installed to keep him upright and forward at the dinner table. While my daughter cozies up for movie night with her beloved bunny, he migrates from sprawling to sitting to the fridge to the bathroom to the left side and to the right side. He even spends time sitting on the back of the couch. He’ll spend hours playing with his Lego, but only after I’ve spent 30 minutes arguing with him about why he should. He likes the quick leapfrogging of checkers and not the methodical plodding of chess. He prefers the speed and physical engagement of hockey and football to the waiting game that is baseball. He loves to read, but only because he has my knack for efficiently and effectively devouring words on a page. He does not like to wait and his impatience can be relentless. 

Note: In an ironic twist of fate, I now know how my husband felt when I asked him to take the garbage out over and over and over. In my defense, he would have complained less about me overfilling it if I had had to ask less for him to empty it.

But for the past few weeks my son’s energy has fueled his anger and frustration and we have argued about everything from what he says to what he does. So, when my son decided that he would be Captain Sparrow to my Mr. Gibbs I double checked the buckles on my life jacket, debated the merits of arming him with a paddle and clarified the rules.

Don’t turn around. Don’t drop the paddle. Don’t rock the boat.

But the energetic boy who likes to remind me that “we’re active kids, Mom” discovered a third gear in the bow of that canoe. As we pushed back from shore the angry fire he had stoked and that fueled my own was doused and we both slowed down. For hours we glided between lush canyon walls, talking about everything and nothing while our paddles moved in unison.

After weeks of being at odds, we found common ground on the water.

Gone Crazy. Come Back Later.

I live in a very small town in a very big city. It’s like Stepford inside of a New York borough. Everyone knows everyone else. And if they don’t, they’ve heard something about them. And, eventually, you hear things about someone … that ends up being you. 

Death teaches you a lot about the living. It shows strength and beauty and the resilience of the human spirit. It reveals warts and weaknesses, yours and in others.

I learned quickly that death bleeds far beyond a lifeless body. Fences are torn down and others mended. Strangers become friends, and friends become strangers. I watched and finally understood what it means that death brings out the best, and the worst, in all of us. Until you stand in the vortex, you only hear the words. You don’t truly live them.

The days were filled with names, numbers and offers of help from people I barely knew and, some, not at all. Friends and family embraced each other, recognizing their universal loss and trying to understand the true depth of ours. Magic hands left their invisible touch, feeding the ebb and flow and preparing the house for its moment of grace. Accounts were set up and nameless, selfless donations received. Laughter, tears and the hum of life moved us through the days as an invisible web of support and emotion took form around us.

But in the dead of night I sifted through digital half-truths, a vicious game of telephone played by people hiding behind the anonymity of their screen names. Caught between the fog and fury of loss, I debated what to do. Join the online conversation I had discovered, politely correct the facts and subtly close down the conversation through shame? Or, drive over in my pajamas and hurl tear-laced obscenities for turning my loss into an opportunity for neighborhood stature? 

I should have gotten in the car. The stories would have been worth it.   

Death taught me how to live again, separating the past and the future, strength and weakness, opportunity and challenge, joy and contentment, an exhausted child and a child facing exhaustion far deeper. It taught me that grief is not erased in months or years and that sometimes a broken toy is so much more.

And it taught me that before I run half-naked down the street in a fit of crazy, I need to post it online first. At least then it will be accurate.

Oh Snap.

Rich and full-bodied, with intense flavors of raspberry, plum and blackberry, balanced with oak character and a hint of toffee. A perfect wine to drink by itself or pair with barbecue, pizza or spicy foods. 

– Snap Dragon, California Red Wine 2008

On the travertine floor and granite countertop. The wood cabinetry, taupe walls, Swiss coffee baseboards, the stainless steel refrigerator and the ceiling. Mommy juice. As far as the eye can see.

Again.

I was really enjoying this bottle. Until now. Now, I am not enjoying this bottle. I am not enjoying being on my hands and knees racing to get ahead of the blood red stain that is oozing its way across the floor, pooling in my champagne-colored grout.

I have this little habit involving wine. Actually, it involves spilling wine. I have just spent a lot of money to have every floor in the house professionally cleaned to erase the impact of two young children and three dogs. And less than a month later, I am sopping and scrubbing furiously. And thinking of all of the times I have done this before.

Like when I momentarily fell asleep sitting on the couch. Or the broken glass at the bottom of the pool that he had to recover piece by piece.He once found a vintage bicycle wine rack tucked in the back corner of a store that was so hot and claustrophobic that I agreed to it only so that we could, like Elvis, leave the building. It settled into the awkward space between the top of the refrigerator and the cabinets and I settled into the idea that it was there.

Christmas Eve was officially ours, a peace offering for the two arms of family each wanting holiday time with the grandchildren. As much as we loved the holidays, we dreaded them. Family demands, budgets that did not stretch far enough and the pressures of work erupted in a candy cane-and-gingerbread-wrapped explosion of tempers and tears. The first holiday as a foursome was particularly difficult – he had just returned from a month-long trip for work and the annual flu had descended like the plague. To survive the preparations we split up, each taking a child and a task. Off went the boys, leaving me with my equally miserable 18-month-old daughter who did not want to be put down.

 

Not when I needed to finish frosting the cake. Not when the dishes needed to be cleaned up. Not when the cheeses needed slicing and arranging. And absolutely not when the back wheel of the wine rack come skittering off the top of the fridge, leaving one hand free to catch the bottle hurtling to the floor.

The white bottle, not the red.

I sometimes wonder what he thought when he walked through that door, my daughter screaming safely from the living room while I soaked up blood-red liquid and ragged green glass, tears from the fever and the frustration running down my face. The bottle had dropped so sharply that deep purple stains splattered across the milky color of the kitchen’s vaulted ceilings. A red watermark lingered in the porous tile for months. And here I am again, almost expecting to hear his voice.

Let me take care of that. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.

I look up at the fading spots as tears splash into the bloody pool below.

Up in Flames

37. 

There are books about where balloons go when they float away. Books about how to feel. How not to feel. Books that dissect grief spiritually, clinically and humorously. Books about the death of husbands. Books about the death of wives. Books about death from disease and death from trauma. Books about losing a military spouse. Books about hospice. Books about losing a child. Books about coping with the loss of a pet. Books about heaven. Books about dinosaurs dying. 37 books to help me heal.

If you are the next person to give me a book, make sure it has 37 matches.

Even fiction that has landed on my nightstand is centered on losing something or someone. Jen Lancaster loses her job and spectacularly spirals downward before regaining better altitude in her cheeky memoirs. Dorothy Koomson’s heroine relives the loss of her past as she comes to grips with the loss of her child. A woman survives the death of her lover by angrily refusing to leave the scene of her carnage and in The Shack grace, forgiveness and peace triumph over loss.

I read “The Shack” weeks after my husband died – I might be the only person on the planet that hated it.

Reliant on friends, family and good behavior for time away from the misery of our house, flimsy red envelopes became my salvation. For months, movies that he had pre-loaded into our delivery queue arrived. I did not laugh at the comedies and shed no tears over doomed romances. I was bored by action-packed thrillers. Academy-award winners fell flat in my living room and spouses died again and again as Halle picked through the ashes, love letters brought Hillary back to life, John found his way again after Grace was gone and Clive brought the boys back.    

At each turn, I was reminded of the simple fact that the life we had – and the dreams we still hadn’t realized – had evaporated quickly and painfully like dry brush in the path of vicious summer flames. Death was a bully, taunting me on the playground of our former life. I am still here.  And no amount of wine is going to make me go away.

You’re right. No amount of time with my merry friends has made you disappear. And it’s not like we haven’t tried. But I’ve never been afraid of schoolyard bullies. So even if you do insist on haunting every corner and crevice, there’s something you should know.

You do not have a starring role in the next chapter in the book of me.

Fishing for Signs of Life.

I have never wanted a pool boy as much as I do at this very moment. 

That’s right, I said it. So let’s just spend a second or two indulging this little fantasy, shall we? Hours spent lounging poolside in a bikini that you have worked all winter long to squeeze into. Frothy liquid concoction, high-powered sunblock and summer’s must-read release on the side table. A not-too-perfect man to apply lotion to those hard-to-reach spots.

Right.

So, you can keep that version because I want a pool boy so that he can actually tend the pool. Like right now. Because I am more than a little concerned that if I fall in I might accidentally come in contact with it. And by it I mean the swollen lizard that is frozen in a grotesque pirouette at the bottom.

Did it not see the mouse? What about the other mouse? The tarantula that was sent flying over the wall? (Don’t judge me – it was early so the odds are slim that anyone was walking down the sidewalk. And for those of you keeping count I can now say that I have, in fact, used the shovel.)

It’s not that I am squeamish. I’m not. Any scorpion, cockroach, millipede or centipede that might consider crawling in usually ends up on the wrong end of my Swiffer, and my husband was willing to bet on me if “Survivor” was ever gutsy enough to drop contestants at one of the poles. It’s just that there is no one on whom to foist the task of recovering this slimy little creature.

Something inconvenient, expensive or beyond either my physical or technical capabilities has continually interrupted the already disrupted cadence of our lives. Like the broken garage door opener that left us stranded outside. Or the fire alarm hard wired into the ceiling and repeatedly short circuiting, well out of reach even from ladder’s highest step. The burnt out TV light bulb was an unpleasant drama that stretched for weeks. Plugged toilets, jammed garbage disposals, replacement refrigerator filters and car problems. Small creatures at the bottom of the pool.

When the sun sinks and the garage doors open on our street, it reminds me of a secret society meeting. The rolling wheels of trash cans a signal that a meeting has been called and garden sheers, leaf blowers and oil pans are the instruments of formality. They search for hammers before disappearing back into their houses to hang pictures that have waited too long to be hung. They return to carry trash bags to the curb and I wonder how many small creatures are inside. I notice the recycled boxes of replacement filters, new appliances and furniture “some assembly required.” I see their irritation and I hear the invisible, frustrated and weary voices that sent them out here.

They think they know frustration and weariness. But they are not standing here angrily fishing for signs of life.