He unlocked his front door with a sigh. This was not how he'd envisioned the holidays. He'd enjoyed the decorating, and even the arguments about the placement of some of the lights. Now, today, they looked garish, mocking. He didn't even bother to turn them on. After locking the door behind him, he threw his jacket on the couch and made his way upstairs. His shoes felt like bricks. He didn't want to do this alone, but the only person he wanted to lean on was gone forever. Home. This wasn't home. Home was gone. Home would never be the same again. When he opened their bedroom door, her smell was everywhere. Through his tears, he could see the indention in the bed where she'd sat to put on her shoes before leaving for their much-needed vacation. Her lotion tube lay forgotten on the bed where she'd tossed it when he interrupted her packing to kiss her. She'd playfully patted his shoulder and told him she didn't have time, but she gave in and let him kiss her anyway, twining her arms around his neck and lacing her fingers in his hair. He could see her makeup and her toiletries, what she didn't pack in her suitcase, on the bathroom counter. Unable to touch anything, he stumbled downstairs and turned on the tv. In the dark, the flashing light and sounds could almost drown out the noise in his head. The thoughts of 'what am I going to do now?' were loud enough to drive him crazy. He turned off the tv and sat in the dark. He could almost believe she was just in the kitchen, making hot chocolate for them to share in front of the fireplace. When he looked at the darkened doorway to the kitchen and the cold, empty fireplace, he sneered at his hopefulness. The tears just wouldn't stop. He finally gave in and let them come.
He woke up stiff and sore with a splitting headache. He didn't remember falling asleep on the couch, but then, he didn't remember much about the last week. Everything was a blur. The hospital, the funeral home, the relatives' homes, and everything else just ran together. The only constant was the tears. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, his house, his life. Even the sun streaming through the living room window seemed like it came from some other dimension to which he no longer belonged. The warmth and light had no place in his world, cold and dark and so very lonely. He melted into tears again and faded away into the swimming abyss of grief.
The phone was ringing when he surfaced again. The sun was high in the sky, and his stomach was rumbling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He thought it was sometime yesterday but couldn't be sure. He looked at the phone but couldn't fathom speaking to anyone right now. He pulled himself upright and caught a glimpse of his haggard, drawn face staring back at him from the mirror over the mantle. Startled, he jumped and averted his eyes. He needed a shower, but he wasn't about to venture upstairs again, so he opted for the kitchen. He put some coffee on. They had intended to be gone over two weeks, so they'd emptied the fridge of most of the perishable stuff before they left. He found a loaf of bread and some butter, made himself some toast and sat down at the table to eat it. He looked out the window on the backyard. He had taken such care to make it look nice, mowing, mulching, and fertilizing, because he knew she liked it when the grass was green and thick. He would watch her smile as she sunk her toes in the cool grass on summer mornings. Now, like everything else, it seemed foreign, like someone else's backyard. He ate the rest of his toast with his eyes closed. He drank his coffee in silence without really tasting it. When he was done, he washed his plate and cup and knife and tried to figure out what to do next. His phone was ringing again. He ignored it again. Since he couldn't go upstairs, he took out his toiletry bag from his suitcase and showered in the downstairs bathroom. She had decorated it, and just looking at the frilly curtain and feeling the fuzzy rugs made him cry again. He let the shower carry away the tears.
After the shower, he felt a little more composed. He looked at his phone. His sister had called. Twice. Because he was feeling better, he called her back. She asked if he needed anything. He said no. He couldn't tell her what he needed. He couldn't put a voice to the loneliness and grief. He couldn't say he needed someone to take his hand and tell him what to do next. He couldn't say he needed someone to take over cleaning up all the leftover stuff. He couldn't look at it, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it. He couldn't say he needed someone to be with him while he fell apart but to give him space at the same time. She would have understood, but she was gone.
He cleaned out his suitcase and put his clothes in the washer. He left his toiletries in the downstairs bathroom. Once that was done, he sat in the living room until the shadows lengthened and dusk became dark. Before it was full dark, a neighbor was walking her dog on the sidewalk. She stopped and raised her hand in greeting. He just stared through the window. His arm was too heavy to return her wave. She dropped her hand, smiled a small smile, and walked on. As he sat in the darkness, the doorbell rang. He ignored it. After the third chime, it stopped. He didn't know how long he sat there on the couch after that. He thought he felt hungry. He didn't know anymore-feelings were something that only existed in that dimension he was in before. Now, everything was cold and empty. No feeling. Only tears. Before the tears could overwhelm him again, he got up and looked out the front door. On the doorstep, there was a casserole dish with a sympathy card. "Sorry for your loss," it said. "Yeah, me too," he said to no one in particular as he picked it up. He took the dish to the kitchen, dished out a slice of the casserole and warmed it in the microwave. He ate it at the kitchen table in the dark. When the dishes were cleaned up, he sat on the couch again and watched tv until the tears came again. He felt the warmth of them trail down his face and the cold splash they made when they hit his legs. It was like the warmth of his essence was leaving his body. More days went by without him noticing or caring.
In a few mornings, he had no idea how many really, it was almost like everything was normal. He had dreamed about her. She was smiling and it left a good feeling so he woke in a good mood. It must have been a Saturday, and he could see the neighbors outside tending their chores as the sun warmed up the neighborhood. He could almost envision her in the kitchen making breakfast. He managed a look toward the kitchen door only to realize it was dark and he was alone. He made breakfast of toast and coffee and took it out to the back porch to eat it. Today, he could look at the yard and the plants without immediately breaking down in tears. He finished his toast and drank his coffee listening to the birds who didn't seem quite as foreign as they did yesterday. He took comfort in listening to the sounds of the 'normal' people. After a while, he felt braver and ventured out to let his bare feet sink into the grass. He closed his eyes and pictured her smile. He felt better.
He knew he needed to do some things, but he couldn't imagine what those things might be. He couldn't remember what normal people did. He knew he needed food, but he wasn't about to go to the store and see everyone's pity. He wasn't nearly ready for that. Instead, he decided to check the mail. He waited until everyone had gone inside for lunch to venture out to his mailbox. He practically ran back to the house, afraid of meeting anyone's eyes and having to speak to them. In the mail were holiday cards, sympathy cards, bills, insurance letters, and some junk mail. He threw away the junk, put the cards and insurance letters to the side-he wasn't ready to read them- and opened the bills. Normal people pay bills. He paid them and filed them in the cabinet using the system she insisted on. Instead of grieving, surprisingly, he found comfort in the memory. He ate lunch of bread and some nuts he found in the cabinet and tried to decide how to get food in his house. Eventually, he called his sister and asked her to do it for him. He just couldn't face any of his friends and neighbors yet. His sister came with everything he needed, food, toilet paper, all the things he wouldn't have thought of because She always did the grocery shopping. His sister put everything away, cleaned his bathroom and made dinner for him. He invited her to stay and eat with him. It felt good to talk to someone again. After his sister left, the house felt so empty, almost as empty as the first night he spent there without her. He cried himself to sleep on the couch.
A few weeks later, he decided he should pack up her things. He called his sister to help him. By help, he meant, just do it so I don't have to. She understood without having to be told and did the work quickly. She put away all the holiday decorations and all her stuff and cleaned the house. She also read the mail he couldn't and helped him get it taken care of. Her husband, his brother-in-law, worked outside, mowing, trimming and taking down the decorations and lights. They ate dinner together and he even laughed a little bit. The world felt a little bit lighter for the first time in almost a month.
Now that all her stuff was gone, the house felt brighter and less oppressive. He could move around the entire house and felt less like a stranger in it. It was like he could almost breathe again. A few weeks after the day they worked to clean out the house, he chose a few pictures of her to put up on the mantle that were his favorites. He cried as he touched the frames she had picked out and relived the memories of when each picture was taken. He talked to her sometimes, when he was feeling lonely. Then he would sit in the silence and wait for her answers. They never came. He went to sleep thinking of her smile.
The phone was ringing when he woke. The sun was shining through the bedroom window. He didn't remember going to bed in their bed. He must have ventured up there when he was looking through pictures. The memories were vivid in his mind, and he spent much of the day thinking of her and their life together. After dinner, he checked his phone and realized his boss had called. Normal people go to work. He decided he wasn't that normal yet and put the phone down. He flipped on the tv and watched until he fell asleep. No tears came.
Sometime after that, a few days maybe, he called his boss back. Normal people go to work. He could go to work, but didn't know if he was normal. Maybe normal wasn't what he thought. Maybe normal was something altogether different now. He gave himself a week, almost four months after she died, and set a date to go back.
Those days passed in a blur. He spent them getting him and his stuff ready. He washed, pressed and hung his shirts and pants, found his briefcase and filled it with normal things-notebook, pen, wallet, calendar. On the last night before he returned to work, he walked through the house, turning out lights one by one, remembering her. Remembering her presence. He could feel her there with him-watching him, comforting him. He settled into bed more content that he could remember feeling in a very long time and slept a dreamless sleep. The next morning, the sun was shining, breakfast actually tasted good, and he found a spring in his step. No darkness. No guilt. Only a shadow of longing to share this with her, but he knew she was there just beyond what he could see. He could still feel here there. As he backed out of the driveway, he was so focused on the brightness and novelty of the world, he never saw the bus before it smashed into his car. The light glared even brighter and filled his entire consciousness. Suddenly, a hand grasped his. He looked up into her beautiful face and smiled. Drawing her into an embrace, he heard her say, "Welcome home, sweetheart."
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