Twenty Eight Years Is Not Enough

Twenty nine years ago today I married Kirk. I said quite a while ago that I would eventually explain how it happened, and today seems to be the right day for it.

The last “chapter” of the story I told you was how he drove to Vermont to ask me to “pick” him, which of course I did. That was in my first semester in college, and as you can imagine, all that drama was not well aligned with academic excellence. As such, I left school after that first semester. The specifics of whether I left or they asked me to leave are now a bit hazy, but suffice it to say that I did not return for another semester. My plan was to return home and attend school at a local four year college beginning the following fall. I have no doubt my parents were terribly disappointed, and rightfully so.

I came home and lived with my mom, and returned to my old job at the restaurant where Kirk and I first met. He now managed a different restaurant so we didn’t see each other at work every day. It was a hard time for us – even though I had elected to stay with him, the fallout of me almost ending the relationship took a toll on us, and I wondered whether the relationship would last. Ultimately though, our genuine affection and enjoyment in each other prevailed, and by the summer, we were really happy together again and marked one year together in July.

In October, we moved in together. I think we both did not really distinguish between living together and being married – we both had the “it’s just a piece of paper” mindset. We had not really talked about marriage, although when he talked about the future he always spoke as if we would be in it together. I didn’t think that far in advance – I was happy with the way things were.

Soon though, shortly before Christmas, he asked me to marry him. I would love to tell you it was romantic and memorable, but it wasn’t really. We were just talking and he said he wanted to marry me – soon. I realized he meant it and wanted me to actually answer. I had no urge to get married. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry him someday – it was more that I hadn’t really thought about it and didn’t feel it was necessary at that point. He felt really strongly about it though – he had realized that the “piece of paper” had a lot more meaning than we were giving it credit for, and he wanted to make that commitment.

To understand my mindset about this decision, you need to understand how I felt about marriage in general at that point in my life. My parents had split up about three years before this, and it had been a shock to me. My perception of their marriage was that it was largely happy, certainly happier than most of my friends’ parents. When it ended, it left me with the impression that even good marriages are little more than a crap shoot. So as I thought about marrying, I truly believed that no amount of waiting or thinking would increase the odds of my marriage lasting. I thought it either would or it wouldn’t, and did not see myself as really able to control or impact it.

In retrospect, it was a ridiculous approach to marriage, but I really believed it. I knew I loved Kirk, I knew he loved me, and given my opinion that we had no control over the likelihood of lasting marriage, I decided to say yes. My main concern was my parents – I knew they would not be okay with me getting married so soon, especially since I had not yet gone back to school. I wanted to get engaged, break the news to them, and then get married in a year or so, after starting back to school. Kirk really wanted to get married quickly – the living together thing was just not enough for him. So we compromised with the following (brilliant) plan – we would get married at the town hall without telling anyone, then in the next few months tell everyone we were engaged, I would start school in the fall, and we would set a “wedding” date for a year or so later, which would give everyone the opportunity to get used to the idea. The next day, I called the town hall, and scheduled our wedding for 10 a.m. December 29 – only about ten days away.

We did not invite (or tell) anyone. On the day of our wedding, we overslept, and when we woke up we had to scramble to get ready. He wore a suit, I wore a beige pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, and beige high heeled sandals (side note: when Erika was about 5, she found a bridesmaid dress in my closet that I had worn in a friend’s wedding. She loved it and asked if it was the dress I married Daddy in. I said no, and showed her the skirt and blouse I was married in, which I had kept for sentimental reasons. She took one look at the outfit, expressed her disgust at the complete inappropriateness of this boring outfit, and flounced off.)

We were twenty minutes late, and the justice of the peace was exasperated because he had to pick up his daughter at the airport. He asked us where our witnesses were, and we told him we didn’t know we needed any. This really aggravated him and he couldn’t believe that we didn’t know we needed to have our marriage witnessed. I told him I thought witnesses were only in old Westerns. He said his clerks could witness the wedding for $50 each. We said no – there was no way we were going to pay someone. Finally, he agreed to marry us anyway, and give us the marriage certificate to take to someone to sign and then we could bring it back and file it with the court. So that’s what we did. He read a short, but actually very nice, reading, had us take our vows, and declared us married. The whole thing took about 10 minutes, and there were only the three of us in the room. Then we took the certificate down the road to the restaurant Kirk managed, told two people who worked there what we had done, swore them to secrecy, and had them sign it. We drove it back to the town hall, and gave it to a grumpy clerk who clearly thought we should have paid her the $50.

We went home, packed up the car (a black Camaro that at the time was super cool), and drove to Toronto for a long weekend/honeymoon. We saw the hotel right off the expressway as we drove into the city – we had missed the exit. I then got one of my first lessons of married life. I wanted to get off at the next exit, get back on the expressway going in the opposite direction, and get off at the right exit – obvious right? But no – he told me he does not turn around, because it is like admitting he made a mistake. So he kept driving and driving, trying to find an alternate route. He stopped for directions several times, which only made it worse because no one knew where to send us, and none of them wanted to admit it. We drove around and around and finally ended up back at the hotel approximately four hours later. That was the first of many times in our marriage that I had to wait out a driving error. Nonetheless, we had a great few days, happy together with our secret.

About three months later, we still had not told anyone of our “engagement” – I was still working up the nerve. He didn’t push – he was content to let me set the pace. But then, we discovered I was pregnant. It must have happened about mid-February, when we had been married only about six weeks. I was THRILLED - I may not have had high regard for marriage, but parenthood was something I always wanted. School would have to wait. Meanwhile, Kirk was terrified. Partly because he wanted us to have more time with just the two of us before having a baby, but mostly because he was so afraid something would go wrong for me or the baby.

We decided we’d better tell people we were married. I suspect our parents were not terribly shocked about the pregnancy – I think when we called and said we wanted to get together to talk with them they pretty much assumed there was a baby on the way. It was the marriage that surprised them. To their great credit, they all handled it very well, and were supportive and accepting. I know that they must have been very concerned that we were in over our heads – we were SO young.

So we never had the “wedding” we planned. Once everything was all out in the open and Erika was on the way, there didn’t seem to be much point. As a parent of adult children now, I often think that I would be crushed if one of my children did what we did, because we deprived our parents of the very special moment of seeing their child marry. I have never regretted not having the big fancy day for me, but I do regret taking that moment from our parents. For Kirk, his only regret was the proposal itself - although it never bothered me, he came to hate the fact that he did not make it a special event.

We did have a very nice party at my grandparents’ home that our family hosted as a substitute for a reception. Erika arrived eleven months and three days after we were married, and Matt came along eighteen months later. And that’s how we began – a lot of love, but not much in the way of fanfare or romance.

Four years ago, we went on a cruise for our twenty-fifth anniversary. Before we left, I looked and looked for a card that would say what I wanted to tell him. I didn’t find one, so I bought a blank one. As I struggled with what to write, it pretty much came down to one thing – I wanted more. Twenty five years was not nearly enough. So that’s what I wrote. After he died, I found that card in a wooden box he kept on his dresser. How true it still is – it just was not enough.

I am so very sad today. I am trying to feel lucky and appreciative, but in the end, I am mostly just so sad. I look at the picture that was taken of us last year on this day, and we look so happy. Little did we know it would be our last.

How ironic that a marriage that ended up working so well started with so little thought. I made the best decision of my life for all the wrong reasons. I said yes, even though I had no confidence it would last – not because of him or us, but because I held little faith in marriage itself. In the end, I really said yes to make him happy. And in the end, he made me happier than I could ever have hoped for.

A Letter to David Cook

I have seen you. You look so harmless. I look at you and expect to want to hit you, hurt you, make you feel even the tiniest fraction of what you have caused us to feel. Yet I have no urge to hurt you at all, I think because I cannot reconcile the fact that you appear so soft and innocuous, and yet I know you are not.

What is in you that is so powerful? Was it anger, or sadness, or self-loathing? What did you feel that prompted you to decide – yes, DECIDE – to be so careless with the lives of others? With the life of the person we loved so much, and by extension, with our lives?

How does it feel to have so much power? Have you even once thought about that power for what it has really done? The devastation, the pain, the grief, the hopelessness that it has wrought? I don’t believe you comprehend it – not because you are stupid, or ill, or young, but because you have not had to FEEL what we feel, you have never experienced what you have forced us to experience.

Let me tell you what you have the power to do.

You brutally and carelessly crushed – literally crushed – the life and breath from a person who was incredibly alive. He was not an ordinary man, and he was not a man who let life happen around him. He LIVED – until you used your power to stop him. He loved with a depth of passion and commitment that many people never find in themselves. He was funny – incredibly funny. Not in a “tell a joke” way. His humor always came from his observations of life itself – he just knew life was funny, and he made the rest of us see it too. He was respectful to others, unless they didn’t deserve it. He taught our children the lessons that will carry them though life. Lessons like “do the right thing.” And “never think less of anyone else for something not within their control.” He gave apples to homeless people, unless they didn’t have teeth, in which case he gave them granola bars. He worked hard, but if work threatened to interfere with family, he drew the line. He loved his dog with a passion, and wanted to have her cremated so he could keep her ashes and have them buried with him someday – little did we suspect that she would survive him. He loved the outdoors, and thought that’s where God was most likely to be found. He seemed invincible, and yet you killed him so easily.

You broke the hearts of his parents. They were alive and well when you took him from them. They are alive still, but I cannot describe them as well, because they are not the same, and never will be. Their phones no longer ring with his calls. They can no longer count on him to take care of them when they need it someday. Their birthdays, mothers day, fathers day, and every other holiday are forever altered by you, as is every ordinary day. Your incredible disregard for anyone other than yourself caused his parents to lose the child they made, they child they brought into the world and raised to be the incredible person he became. You caused them to watch as their child was lowered into the ground.

You have ripped my children’s father from them. Do you love your father? Do you appreciate him? My children did, but there is nothing like losing a person to make you realize how much. They are young still, and so was their father – they should have had him for many more years. The autopsy you forced on my husband said that they would have. He was perfectly healthy, other than the fact that you crushed his torso. No cancer, no heart problems, no liver or prostate problem. Just a crushed body. He would have been here to see them marry, have their own children. He would have been here to give advice on what a good price for chicken is, and what is probably wrong with your car that won’t start or your printer that won’t print. Fortunately, you didn’t kill him before he could show them the really important stuff, like how to be a good dad, and how to be an incredible husband. The problem is, that’s why they still needed and wanted him so much – because he was that dad, that person they counted on. That person they loved. My daughter does not tell new people in her life that her dad died. Not because she dreads their pity, or she is afraid it will make them uncomfortable. She does not tell them because she can’t stand the thought that they will picture her as a girl with no dad, a girl from an incomplete family. She HAS a dad, and she HAS a whole family. Yet you have separated us from each other, and we have no way to overcome your exercise of power.

You have rendered the rest of our family helpless – parents and in-laws, sisters, stepmothers, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles and cousins. They grieve for him too, and they try to figure out how to help us. They don’t know what to say. They cannot FIX anything for us. They wish that they could take some of our pain. Most of all, they wish they could change it, but in the end they can only listen and watch as we struggle with the irreversible theft of someone so incredibly precious.

You have left a hole in his friends. To some, he was a great friend, to others he was as close or closer than their own families. There is a spot in their lives that is missing now. They feel it in the part of their day when they would have called him, and he would have answered – HEEELLLO, or Hi Kath Kath, or whatever greeting he used only for that one person. They feel it when they see something he would have thought was funny, and have the urge to call and tell him, and then remember they cannot. They feel it when they watch a game he also would have been watching and they cannot send the text they have the urge to write. They feel it when they scroll through their email box and see the last “joke of the day” he sent, just a few hours before you used your power to kill him. They feel it when they now do something alone that they always used to do with him. Or when they cannot bring themselves to do it at all because, thanks to you, they cannot do it with him.

I have saved myself for last because I do not know where or how to find the words to describe what you have done to me. You took my best friend, my love, my partner, my co-parent, my advisor, my coach and cheerleader. You took my HUSBAND, who was everything to me. Everything. We were not normal. We were THAT couple. Not because we were wealthy, or beautiful, or special in any conventional way, but because we had THAT marriage. The one that everyone can see for what it is – real, and special, and incredible. The one that lots of other people either wish they had, or don’t even know enough to wish they had, because they’ve never witnessed it.

When you killed him, he was on the way to the vet. His dog needed medicine, and he was going to get it. But what matters is where he had been. That day, he was shopping for jewelry for me. It was not my birthday, or our anniversary. It didn’t need to be. He just loved me, and wanted to surprise me and make me happy. He had been to three stores – the business cards were in his wallet, brochures on diamonds and gold on the seat beside him. He would not have made this purchase quickly – he would have explored all the options, in order to maximize my happiness. After you took him from me, a friend called the stores to see if by any chance he had ordered something. He had not, but every store remembered him. They remembered the big guy who came in, excited to plan a surprise for his wife. The guy who made friends with everyone in the store. The one whose love for his wife was evident on his face, in his voice.

We were not perfect, but we loved each other with a depth and passion and truth and ease that could not be mistaken or hidden. And not only did you separate us from each other, you used your power to rob us of our goodbye. The one we always thought we would have. The one where we say “I love you” over and over. The one where we say “I’ll see you again someday.” The one where we say “thank you.” The one where we kiss, and touch, while one of us peacefully leaves the other. The one where the person who is left behind gets to lie quietly with the one who has gone, before the rest of the world knows and can intrude with its forms, and laws, and demands for decisions, and grief and loneliness.

So much damage and pain. So much power for one who appears so harmless.

It's Back

The quiet sadness is gone – instead I’m back to the raw gut wrenching sadness. The every day sobbing crying hiccupping so many tears I can’t even see. I hurt hurt hurt. Before now, I wanted him back for good – I wanted it all to not have happened. I still want that desperately. But now, I am overwhelmed with my willingness to settle for having him back for just a little while – a day, even an hour. I think I’m in the bargaining stage. All I can think of is just give him back to me for a little while, and in exchange I will take the pain of losing him again. If I really could make it happen, I wouldn’t even hesitate.

In a much worse way it’s kind of like the bad breakup you had with whoever you loved in the past. Even those who are happily married now probably remember what I’m talking about. Remember how you felt when things didn’t work out with whoever you loved before? Regardless who ended it, you probably yearned for one more conversation, one more touch. That’s what this is, multiplied a million times over. All I can think about is how much I want to touch him one more time, kiss him one more time, feel him hold me one more time. It would be worth it, no matter how horrendous losing him a second time would be.

Up until recently, what I wanted more than anything was to be able to talk to him, to say goodbye, to have one last conversation in which I could try to cram everything that I want to say. But now, I do not feel such a powerful need to talk – instead, I want to touch him. He has the softest hair, and I want to feel it again. We fit perfectly together in his big recliner – I want to sit snuggled with him in it one more time. I want to hold his hand, with my thumb tucked into his palm, which was always our way. I want to lie down quietly next to him – not with me on top of the earth and him under it, like I have to now. I want to just lie next to him and feel the length of him warm against me. I would not fall asleep there, like I always did in the past – I would stay awake and feel every second of him next to me – his smell, the firmness of his arm around me, the sound of him breathing, the feeling of his hand on my hair. Most of all, I want to hold him, kiss him – even more than I want to feel him do the same to me.

The sadness was even worse this last weekend because last night was the last meeting of my grief support group. I was shocked at how gut wrenching it was for me. Part of my distress was that I have come to count on being able to talk to these people every Sunday night – they are grieving too, so they understand, but they are not grieving for him, nor do they really know me, which makes them a good fit for my madness. They get it, without bringing anything personal to the relationship. They also are my only social life. My once a week “visit with people and get to know them” time. The only people here that I can talk to about him without ever feeling I am making them uncomfortable.

The other part of last night that was hard was that we did a balloon release. I know it sounds kind of corny, but it was actually good in a sad but therapeutic kind of way. We all wrote a note to the person we lost, tied it to a balloon string, and then we let them go together. Everyone else wrote their note right before the release. I, of course, wrote three drafts yesterday afternoon to be sure I got it right, and brought the final finished version with me. I wrote in tiny letters so the paper could be small and lightweight, yet I could still say a lot. I had a terrible time letting the note go with the balloon. It was like losing something all over again – I cried and cried.

My sadness is accompanied by absolutely crazy thoughts. I find myself obsessed with Buick LeSabres – the make and model of Kirk’s car. Recently I saw one the same color as his. It was in the right lane, I was in the left, and it was slightly ahead of me. I could barely see the driver from the rear, but it was a man. I was overwhelmed with the thought that it was him, and he was driving away from me. I sped up to catch him, trying desperately to see him from the side, to see that it was really him. I knew logically it wasn’t, but what if it was?? - if I could just catch up with him maybe it would all change. Traffic did not cooperate, and I couldn’t pull up next to him, and he eventually got away without me ever getting a better look at him. It made me cry.

I saw another LeSabre last week that was the wrong color. It was coming toward me, but turned in another direction before I got there. Again I felt compelled to try to see the driver, even though the car wasn’t even the right color – I had to stop myself from turning down a road I didn’t even need to go down just to follow it and be sure.

Another day I was in a meeting at work when suddenly there were sirens nearby. I panicked – I felt like I was going to hyperventilate, or maybe like all the air had been sucked out of me, I’m not sure which. I was sure those sirens were for someone I loved. Then it hit me that it couldn’t be. There is no one I love here. That relaxed me, and made me sad at the same time – what an awful thing to live somewhere where sirens cannot possibly be for someone you love, because no one you love is there.

And the craziest thing of all? I was feeling so sad in the car the other day – I was drowning in the feeling of needing to escape the sadness – to feel good again, to have life be okay again. The radio was on, and suddenly I heard an old song, and the words “seems it never rains in southern California…” came out of the radio. Instantly I thought, “I’ll move to Southern California.” I really thought it – no, DECIDED it. For that split second, that actually seemed like a perfectly logical, rational solution to my sadness. Move to Southern California, and I get my life, my husband, my complete lack of sadness back. Truly crazy.

I still cannot believe he is really gone. For good.

Things That Might Surprise You...

One of the things I hear a lot from people is how much they enjoy getting to know Kirk in a new way through the blog. I was thinking about this last night and about the fact that there were things about him that even surprised me sometimes – times when I thought for sure I could predict his reaction to something and turned out to be wrong.

So here is a list of things that might surprise you about Kirk.

Movies: Kirk HATED to go to the movies. Too much work to go to the bathroom, too many other people around him, having to walk out instead of change the channel if you didn’t like the movie. And of course, no beer. He also never wanted to rent movies. Instead, he preferred to stick to his tried and true favorites. I never really understood how they became favorites since he was so resistant to watching movies to begin with, but somehow he did develop a movie repertoire, and there was a specific list that he would watch every time they were on TV. You all probably know that he loved funny movies, some dramatic movies, and action movies. Some of his favorites were not too surprising: “Caddyshack,” “Shawshank Redemption,” “Fast Times at Ridgmont High,” “Apollo 13,” “Grumpy Old Men,” “Trading Places,” “Sergeant York,” and of course, his all time favorite movie – “Arthur.” But what you may not know is that some of his very favorite movies are romantic, or sappy, or corny. “An American President.” “Dave.” “Grease.” “Mary Poppins.” Even “Pretty Woman.” He would watch them every time they were on TV. What do they have in common? A happy ending. This was his number one criteria for a movie – it had to end well. One of my favorite thoughts now is that he really loved the movie “It’s A Wonderful Life,” with Jimmy Stewart. If you have never seen this, it is about a man who has something go horribly wrong in his life, and he feels those around him would have been better off if he had never lived. An angel comes and shows him what the world would have been like without him, and the man sees that he has had a wonderful impact on others, and that his life mattered very much. I like to think that Kirk had the same kind of life – the kind that made other people’s lives better because he was in it.

Books: What books? If it doesn’t have pictures and you can’t finish it in the bathroom, it was of no interest to him. He never understood my love of reading, with one exception. In Kirk world, there was only one book worth reading - “The Other Side of the Mountain.” He read it as a child, and for the rest of his life asserted that it was the best book ever written. I can’t imagine why – I finally read it for the first time a few years ago and was shocked at the hardship and isolation in it. But he loved it – the strength and perseverance of the character, the communion with nature. He had not read it since childhood, but a few years ago someone (I’m pretty sure it was Auntie Martha) gave it to him for Christmas and he read it cover to cover right away (this from a man that took a month to finish a magazine). Also on the topic of reading, he clearly had an opinion on the worst fiction of all time – the short story “The Lottery.” I have to agree it is a horrifying and distressing story – I also remembered reading it in high school and how much it upset me. But he had an absolute hatred for it, and thought it was downright abusive to make kids read it. Our kids knew from a very young age that if and when they found this story on their reading curriculum he was prepared to fight all the way to the Supreme Court to keep them from having to read it. From the time they were small, he worried some teacher would try to make them read it. I can’t remember now if they ever did – they probably read it and never told him so they wouldn’t have their dad embarrassing them by taking on City Hall over it. If you’ve never read it and think about looking it up now be warned – it’s AWFUL.

New York City: he loved it. Yup – the boy from Hilton, whose favorite things were football and hunting, really loved New York. He loved the busy-ness, and most of all, he loved seeing the people. We went there several times over the past few years and lots of the time we just walked or sat, watching the people the whole time. He liked the skaters and performers in Central Park, the people on the subway, the yuppies lined up outside the Apple Store. He LOVED the Naked Cowboy. For those unfamiliar with this person, he is a very fit guy who stands in Times Square all day in nothing but a cowboy hat and boxer briefs. He carries a guitar, and spends the whole day posing for pictures with female tourists. They grope him with abandon, and provided that he is sure they are adult, he gropes right back. And I do mean GROPE - while their friends, and even husbands and boyfriends, take pictures. And they PAY him for it – that guitar case on the ground is never short on cash. Kirk thought Einstein had nothing on this guy – what brilliant way to make a living! He would watch the guy for an hour every time we went there. I suspect he was weighing his options – Could he be the Naked Cowboy 2 as a second career? But what about the gym time he would have invest in to look like that in his boxers? Or would people pay for a picture with a guy in boxers even if he had a beer belly instead of a six pack? Hmmmm…it was a lot to ponder. And finally, the NY phenomenon that Kirk loved that will surprise you most of all – Broadway shows. He was surprised too – the first time we went ("Mamma Mia") he only went to appease me, but he loved it. The next time we went, we saw "Grease." On our next visit, I think it was going to be "Dreamgirls" or "Hairspray."

And speaking of performances: Kirk loved singing waiters. The first time we ate someplace that had them was in about 1996 at a huge home-style restaurant in South Carolina called The Plantation. The servers there were incredible singers, and they specialized in gospel sounding music, but the lyrics were always about food. There was one guy who had the deepest voice we’d ever heard, and he sang an incredible song about butter beans that brought down the house. We still talked about the butter bean guy years later – we would be at parties where people would be talking about the best singers in the world. Other people would say Streisand, or whatever, and Kirk would pipe up with “The best singer in the world is the butter bean guy in South Carolina.” When we were in New York City, we always went to Ellen’s Stardust Diner, where the staff is made up of struggling Broadway actors, and they sing all kinds of stuff – Elvis, show tunes, the Beach Boys. He was always amazed that you could go to a restaurant and hear ordinary people sing better than most of the stuff being turned out in professional recording studios.

Gay guys: He loved to be hit on by gay guys, and they seemed to have a thing for him. I first realized it when we went to Provincetown, and they would openly approach him, even with me there. He has been propositioned in airports and in hotels. My best guess is that they liked the lumberjack thing he kind of had going on. They weren't his type obviously, but he loved it nonetheless, and considered it highly flattering. Someone who thinks you're attractive is someone who thinks you're attractive, and how can that be a bad thing? As far as he was concerned, it was all a compliment. He would strut around with his chest puffed out, swinging his arms (if you know him, you know EXACTLY the strut I am talking about), and say "That guy wanted me - I'm hot."

And finally, what may be the biggest surprise of all, or then again, maybe not. It is not about an activity or thing he loved or hated, but ultimately I guess it is about who he loved and just how much he loved her. A couple of Christmases ago, Kirk gave me a secret Christmas present. It was when we lived in GA, and I think it may have been the year that his whole family came to see us for the holiday. I don’t know if anyone remembers that that year for Christmas, he gave me an envelope, and told me that I had to promise not to reveal to anyone else what was in it. I looked in it, and I cried. Why? Because it was the best, most special Christmas present I ever got. He had given me something that I wanted very much, that he did not want to give me, because it embarrassed him. Something that would mean one on one, “look into each others eyes” time together. Something that would allow us to do something most people of our generation never do, but that I had always wanted to do with him. What was it? Ballroom dancing lessons. I had been asking him to do this with me for probably 15 years. I love watching older couples dance – how they know what each other is thinking, can predict each others next steps, how they can do something so beautiful with no effort, how they seem to be just inside each other, as if no one else is even in the room. If you have ever seen a couple like this you know what I mean. I always knew that we both pretty much had two left feet – we were never going to win Dancing with the Stars. But I didn’t care about that – I just wanted to know each other so well we could move together without having to think, just the two of us without noticing anyone watching, and to do it while holding each other.

You are probably wondering how we did. I am sad to say we never took the lessons. It was my fault, not his. Every time I looked at the schedule the lessons seemed to be at a bad time. And if I’m honest, I was worried that we need to lose some weight first – dancing is hard work, and we were probably a bit chubby for it. Ever since the accident, I have regretted never getting around to taking those lessons – I always thought there was time. But as I am writing this, I am figuring out that even though we never learned to dance, I actually did get what I wanted. As I re-read the last sentence of the previous paragraph, I now realize that metaphorically speaking, everything I ever wanted from dancing, I had from our marriage. We really did move together without having to think, out in the world for all to see, yet still alone with each other somehow, and we certainly did it while holding each other.

Another happy blog post. I ♥ Kirk.

Legal Update

I am feeling practical today. The last few days have been very emotional, so this is a welcome break. Given my collected state of mind, it seems like a good time to update everyone on the status of the court case. I’m sure after my entry on how I felt seeing David Cook for the first time, you all wondered about what that court event was and what is happening next, but at the time I wrote that entry I wasn’t up to explaining it all.

One of the things I am realizing in talking with some of you lately is that there are some misperceptions in your information, which is likely my fault. I have told so many people so many things that I don’t know who I have told anything to. So in the interests of a clean slate, I will try to start from the beginning and not assume you all know what has gone on. But first, a note to the lawyers and lawyers-to-be in the family: I am sure I will not get terminology correct as I write about this. I am going to do my best to explain things I don’t fully understand myself, and to do it in plain English, which is NOT how it is explained to me, so if I’m not perfectly technically correct, bear with me.

By way of context, it may help to understand how things usually work, and how this case is different. In most felony cases in this state, a defendant is not charged until two things happen. First, the police investigate the incident, and if they believe a crime has been committed, they send the results of the investigation to the DA. Next, the DA takes the case to a grand jury. If the grand jury agrees the defendant should be tried for a crime, they return an indictment for a specific charge. An arrest warrant is issued, and the defendant is arrested and appears in court for an arraignment. During this arraignment the defendant is charged with the crime, enters a plea, and bail is set.

In this case, things happened out of order. David Cook was arrested the day after the accident and charged with manslaughter, before the police investigation was done or a grand jury was convened. The decision to do this was made because the police were very confident that he had committed a crime, and because they felt he was a flight risk. By charging him, they ensured he could not leave town without forfeiting his bail. He appeared before a judge two days after the accident, and pled not guilty. Bail was set at $50,000, and he made bail with the help of a bondsman. He spent just a few hours in jail before being released, and has been out of jail ever since.

For the next several months, the police investigation was conducted, and in August, the results were sent to the county DA. The DA took the case to the grand jury in October, and the grand jury agreed that he should face trial, and returned an indictment of manslaughter. If they had not done so, all charges would have been dropped. This is a second degree felony, and I am told it carries a sentence of 2 to 20 years.

Once he was indicted, an arraignment was scheduled. Keep in mind that normally this is when he is formally charged, enters a plea, and bail is set, but in this case, all that had happened months earlier. That means that in this case, the only real surprise would have been if he appeared at the arraignment and changed his plea. Barring that, the arraignment was little more than a formality.

The arraignment was the event at which I saw him. I am learning that Law & Order bears little resemblance to reality - the arraignment was nothing like TV, so I will try to give you a picture of what happened. The courtroom setting did look quite a bit like TV. You enter through double doors at the back of the room. There is a center aisle with four long rows of benches on both sides, and a swinging wooden gate that you pass through to enter the lawyer’s areas. There are tables for the prosecution and defense in this area, one on either side of the aisle (prosecution on the left, defense on the right – opposite how it is always shown on TV). The judge sits in the front right corner of the room, and the court clerk sits at the front center of the room. The jury box is in the front left corner, and prisoners are brought in through a door near the judge’s bench. There was no judge at all for the time I was there. David Cook’s arraignment was scheduled for 8 a.m. that day – and so were the arraignments of thirty other people. Another thirty were scheduled at 8:30. That should give you some idea of how much actual time goes into any one case.

There were three District Attorneys seated at the prosecution table. In the area immediately behind them were rolling carts full of files. There were dozens of people in the spectator area, mainly defendants out on bail, including David Cook. At the appointed time, all the defendants’ attorneys formed a single file line that started at the front of the table with the three DAs, and coiled through the front center of the area back toward the judge’s bench. The DAs have their backs to the spectators, but the defense attorneys face the spectators. As they reached the head of the line, they spoke to whatever DA was available, and told the DA what defendant they represent. The DA retrieved the case file from the rolling bins, and there was a quick and very quiet conference between the defense and the DA. The defense attorney did not necessarily speak with the actual DA assigned to the case – in this case, he talked to another DA. Spectators cannot generally hear what is said, partly because the attorneys talk quietly, and partly because there are so many conversations going on simultaneously – conversations between the attorneys, conversations in the spectator area among all the people waiting, conversations between the court clerks at the very front of the room. Also, doors are opening and closing, people are walking in and out, etc. At any rate, the two lawyers confer, and provided that they agree on next steps, both sign a piece of paper indicating when the next court date will be. The defense attorney takes the paper to the front of the room and registers it with the court clerk, then walks into the spectator area and updates the client on what happened. The only time the judge gets involved at this stage is if the DA and the defense counsel cannot reach resolution on the current issues in the case.

In this case, there was no change to the plea, so the hearing was a non-event. The only way I even knew the players was that the victims’ assistance counselor had described the DA to me, so I knew who he was. I have seen David Cook’s mugshot, and I know his attorney’s name and saw his picture on his website. I had actually printed pictures of David Cook and his attorney in case I needed them, but I didn’t – I knew them both instantly. I could not hear much, but I could tell that the only event of any significance was that the DA did not have the case file at all (doesn’t give you a lot of confidence in the system does it?). The defense attorney explained the case situation and waited while they searched for the file. I could tell from watching the DA’s body language they didn’t have it. I heard the defense attorney ask if the DA knew if there was a particular item in the file (I couldn’t hear what), and the DA said he didn’t know, but that the defense counsel should leave a blank DVD and if it was in the file they would give him a copy. Then they compared calendars and agreed on the next court date. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I found out later in the day it is set for January 19. Then the defense attorney went and spoke with David Cook and a man I’m sure is his father, and they all left. None of them, including the DA, ever knew I was there. And why would they? I’m just the invisible spectator who loves the invisible victim.

This is exactly what the DA’s office had told me to expect – a quiet conversation, and another court date in 60 days. What I have now learned is that these hearings are almost always a quiet conversation in a crowded courtroom with no judge participation. Unlike Law & Order, where each hearing has a purpose that has significant impact on the case, in real life the purpose of these sessions is very different. In layman’s terms, they are essentially the system’s way of forcing two sets of busy attorneys to talk to each other. By establishing a series of these sessions, both sides are forced to talk about the case at regular intervals. They should be talking to each other between sessions also, but at a minimum they are conferring during the sessions. While in court, they update each other on their readiness for trial, discuss any requests for evidence sharing, address any procedural issues, and in general talk about whatever needs to be discussed to move the case toward trial. Generally, there is not a need for the judge unless they cannot reach agreement, in which case they will request a conference with the judge.

I am told that in less serious cases, there are generally three of these sessions. The first is the arraignment. The next is scheduled for 60 days later, and in that second session, a third is scheduled for 30 days later. In that third session, a trial date is usually set for some future date. In a case this serious however, there are generally at least two additional sessions, 30 days apart. Assuming that estimated timeline holds, that would indicate that after the January session, there would be another in February, in March and in April, and then the trial would be scheduled.

I am told that at some point there may be a discussion of a plea bargain. I have been assured that before holding any plea discussions the DA’s office will contact me so that we can weigh in on the matter. I asked if that might happen before the Jan. 19 court date, and was told it is highly unlikely anything would happen before then, I think because the defense has not yet had the opportunity to see the evidence, so they cannot yet judge whether or not they should try to plea. Important note: Because this is a public forum, I am intentionally not sharing any specific information about the evidence. If I have already told you something about the evidence, please do not reference it if you post a reply to the blog. If you have questions about the evidence, email or call me and I will answer privately.

The hardest thing about all this is that I had this mental TV picture of going to these hearings and being able to follow along as one prosecutor, one defense attorney, and one defendant appear before a judge, and talk out loud for all to hear. And on TV, when the hearing ends, the DA turns to the victim’s family, and comments on what happened, or reassures them he will get the guy, or SOMETHING. Because it doesn’t happen that way, David Cook knows right away what happened, and I don’t, which is terribly frustrating. I have to leave the courtroom, call the victim’s assistance counselor, and have her chase down what happened. That can take a while because the DA is still back in court, and the court clerk records don’t get updated instantly. Even then, all I know is that the next date has been set – I don’t know what HAPPENED in there. I don’t know what the defense asked for, what the prosecutor told them, or anything else. So I have developed an alternative strategy – a little unorthodox perhaps, but not illegal. I will not reveal it here (again due to the public forum), but suffice it to say that I am determined to find a way to get more information than the system wants to give me, and I will keep trying new approaches to get what I want. If they won’t provide it easily, I will just get creative. I’ll keep you posted.

Gratitude

It’s the day before the next hard day, and on this Thanksgiving Eve, I am feeling a strange mixture of sadness and gratitude.

Fall has been tough to watch. Watching the leaves fall outside my window has made me realize that Kirk has already missed one full season. Spring was half happy, because I still had him, and half so mind-numbingly horrible that I never noticed when it became summer. But now I am more aware of the world around me, and seeing fall arrive makes me realize he has missed his first full phase of nature – a summer he never saw, never fished, never complained about bad off-season TV. Thinking about him missing fall is worse. It was his favorite season – the season of beauty, comfortable temperatures, football, and hunting. There are men in camo everywhere, and they make me want to cry – especially the big ones. He was like a little kid at this time of the year – getting all his gear out, taking inventory of what he needed (i.e., what he had lost from last year!), then being cheap with himself and not wanting to buy anything. Researching and planning where to hunt, where to sit. Walking the woods before opening day of each season (turkey, deer with a bow, gun season) to get the lay of the land, look for animal sign, find a good tree for his tree stand. And then shortly before opening day, the time would arrive when I came home from work to find him sitting on the living room floor, dressed in camo from head to toe, not moving. I would say hello and he would act surprised that I had seen him – because he was “invisible” in his camo. The same joke for nearly 30 years – the kids and I all know that Dad’s invisible when he has his camo on.

In my opinion, of all the hunting paraphernalia the head gear was the worst. Depending on the weather and what he was hunting for, he would choose from a variety of options. For bird hunting on warmer days, there was the camo hat that had a narrow brim around the bottom and a chin string. Sounds innocuous I know, but it was the stupidest looking hat you ever saw – and it made his face look huge and triangular. He never believed (or maybe cared) that it looked ridiculous. And how about the camo face net? Used for turkey hunting, it stretched over his entire face except for his eyes, and looked just plain freaky. Then there was the blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat – you know, the kind with the ear flaps? Used for deer hunting on a cold day. And the head gear I hated most of all – the gruesome leather face mask, for super cold days. It was heavy leather, with an elastic strap that ran around the back of his head, and small holes cut in it for eyes, nose and mouth. I am positive it was straight from the set of a horror movie.

His very favorite day of the year was Thanksgiving (followed closely by Groundhog’s Day). In Kirk world, Thanksgiving is the best life has to offer. Family. Incredible food, which he prepared and served with pride and love. Hunting. Football, with a guaranteed Cowboys game on the docket. No work. All the things he valued the most in his life, ALL IN THE SAME DAY. He loved it.

This first Thanksgiving without him, after much deliberation, we have decided to not ignore how Thanksgiving would have been if Kirk were still here. We are not creating all new traditions. Instead, we are passing the mantle. Erika has decided that she will be the food preparer, and that Kirk’s mom will be her teacher. They both arrived yesterday, and have been plotting and planning for weeks. Matt and his girlfriend Jodie are here also, and Erika’s new boyfriend will arrive Thanksgiving morning. The menu will be just like Kirk would have made it, except we are adding green bean casserole as a nod to Jodie’s traditions.

I have been sad as this day approaches, and know I will be sad once I am in it. More than anything though, I actually feel thankful. This has taken me by surprise – I would have expected to feel decidedly UNthankful this year of all years. Instead, I find myself hyper-aware of what I have to feel grateful for. The list is long, but here goes:

Matt and Erika: I could not have asked for better children to have during the most awful time of my life. Despite their own grief, they have from the very first shocking minute been more concerned for me than they are for themselves, and focus more on my needs than their own. I’m not sure this is good for them in the long run, but they are unwilling to even consider the possibility that sometimes I should take care of them rather than the other way around. The list of ways they have helped me is endless. Matt spoke from his heart and gave the best eulogy anyone could have given at the funeral. He picked the burial spot where both Kirk and I will eventually lie, and helped me figure out the words that will mark the stone and tell people for centuries who we were to each other. He (along with Kirk’s Dad and his wife, Sandy) care for Kirk’s grave when I cannot. He worries about me, like when he wanted me to choose a new car that would have OnStar in case anything happens and I am alone and need help. Most importantly of all, he can see things from a perspective that I cannot, and at times explains that viewpoint to me in a way that completely shifts how I feel, and makes me feel a thousand times better, or helps me resolve something I desperately need to resolve. He is not someone who shares his deepest thoughts often, but when he gives them to me, I am astonished at the wisdom and insight that someone so young carries inside.

Erika was incredible in that first week also. She was the one who went with me the first time I saw him after the accident. When we walked in the room, he was there, in the casket, across what seemed like the longest room I had ever been in. It was a shock, seeing him lying there – I had wanted so very badly to see him, but when the moment arrived, I couldn’t breathe, or move. The walk across that room toward him was the longest walk of my life, but she hung on to me and helped me one slow horrible step at a time. She was the one who figured out why he didn't look like Kirk, and what could be done about it, and got the funeral director to fix it so he seemd more like the Kirk we needed to see. Over the next few days, she kept me focused when my mind was so numb and shocked I literally couldn’t make even the smallest decision on my own. Since returning from the funeral, she calls me every single day without fail. She worries about me if she doesn’t reach me, and I don’t call back quickly. She makes me laugh, she plans the vacations we will take, she distracts me when I need it, she talks through things with me when I need that instead. She is my daily caretaker, my cheerleader, the voice on the phone I look forward to at the end of each day. I love these two children more than life, and am so grateful they are mine.

My Family: I don’t even know where to begin. You all have helped me more than you can possibly know. You visit me, you call me, you support me, you write me, you worry about what I eat, you read this blog religiously. You anticipate the challenges for me I do not even see yet (like the Christmas gift buying list, which used to be organized by couples, and you changed to individuals so I do not stand alone and spouseless on the list). Each of you has a specific talent that is unique to you, and that fits just right into one of my needs. My Dad sends me emails of thanks and love that make me feel watched over and cared about. My Mom seems to understand my feelings and emotions in a way that I would not have expected from someone who has not experienced this, and also did me a big favor (which I will not mention in detail but she knows what it is) that removed a lot of stress in the first few months. Dorothy sends me notes of support and caring that always lift me up and make me happy when they arrive in the mail. Of my sisters, Amanda is the “doer” – she and her husband drove all the way here recently, and by the time they left they had taken care of all the things I needed help with and didn’t want to ask the neighbors for (I must have used the phrase “we will need a ladder for this” a dozen times, and found that we never did thanks to Clifford’s long arms and legs!). She also texts me for no reason other than to say she loves me, or even “Good Night, Lis.” Lauren is the philosopher, and like Matt, she helps me see things in a new light because of her view on life and the world. She also NEVER asks how I am doing – instead she uses the phrase “I’m just calling to check in.” SO much better than the unanswerable “how are you doing” question. Susan gave us the gifts of two new Kirk stories at the funeral – the story of how he bought my wedding rings, and the story of how he used to read to the kids when they were little. She gave us wonderful memories and laughter that day, and I will never ever forget it. She also was the person who was due to visit when I suddenly discovered I needed to not have a visit for a while, and was completely unfazed when I asked her not to come. I don’t think I know anyone else who could have so completely understood and accepted my request, and made me feel so completely okay telling her. And Jennifer, who arrived faster than seemed humanly possibly after the accident, and more than perhaps anyone else got me through the most terrible days of my life. She was my secretary, my planner, my interpreter and go-between, my shoulder, my therapist, my fiercest protector, my constant companion for almost the first full month. She has an instinct about what I need and how to respond – or not respond – that never fails. I don’t know if this is because she is the sister most like me (and within our family, our husbands are most alike), or perhaps because of the bond we developed when she was very ill a few years ago and I stayed with and helped her. Regardless of the reason, I am incredibly grateful for everything she has done, and continues to do, for me. And finally, the nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, etc., who have each helped me in their own way.

Kirk’s Family: From you, I appreciate not just your love and support, but the complete lack of drama. I have met so many people who during their deepest grieving, have had in-law issues over money, or how they expressed their grief, or disagreements over decisions, but you have all been okay with the things I say, do or feel, even though I am sure at times it must not be what you would have expected. You never ever have expected me to be or feel anything other than what I am. You do not judge me harshly if I am sometimes not as distraught as you might expect. You trust me to handle the legal and insurance situations on behalf of all of us. You call me, write me, visit me, send me birthday cards and gifts, keep tabs on me. You still consider me yours, and I am grateful for it, because I still consider you mine.

Our Friends: The list of friends who have helped and made a difference is endless. Friends from every walk of our lives – childhood, Perkins, Sysco, Palmer, E-Z-GO, Valeo, Hansford, Hamlin, Brockport – the list goes on and on. Friends who drove and flew across many states to be with us for the funeral, and friends that still live back home – you made the programs, you organized and served food at the “wake,” you spoke at his funeral, you carried him to his grave. You gave us the best gift of all when you told us story after story about him that we never knew. You email, send cards and gifts, and call me still. And no mention of gratitude I feel for our friends is complete without specific mention of Nancy R. Bonk. Our husbands were best friends for years, so Nancy has been my friend for virtually my entire adulthood. But in the past seven months, our friendship has gone to a place it had never been before. She gets what I am feeling and thinking in a way that almost no one else does, and instinctively knows how to respond. Kirk really loved Nancy, and I know he would be pleased to see what has happened between her and me. The change and growth in our relationship is something I genuinely treasure, and it ranks high on my list of “thank yous” this season.

Our Neighbors and My Co-Workers Here: They have been unbelievable also. They were there when I learned I had lost him, and they have been there ever since. Because of them, magic happens – soup appears, light bulbs and air filters get changed, mail and newspapers are brought to my door, garbage cans are returned to their rightful place, my garage door gets closed if I accidentally leave it open, the dogs get rounded up and brought home when the landscaper forgets to close the fence, my boat gets towed where it needs to go, sprinkler settings are changed with the seasons, my house is cared for when I am away, the closet door that needed planing now opens properly, the septic system always has chlorine in it. They still invite me to “couples” dinners, they find grief resources for me. They pulled me into their fold when I needed it most, and seem to plan to keep me.

The Strangers Who Read this Blog: You are the biggest surprise of all, and one of the most welcome. I am astonished when I hear from one of you who has been quietly reading without my knowledge (thank you and welcome to Katie, the latest stranger to send me a note). You too help me more than you realize. I am not sure why, but I feel so comforted to hear that you are there. No matter how much I write I am only telling you the tiniest bits of who Kirk was, but I still love that you listen.

What I am most thankful for from everyone on this long list is that you help me keep him alive. For a long time my greatest fear was that he would be forgotten, but thanks to all of you, I am slowly realizing that I am not the only one who will not let that happen. I am incredibly lucky to be blessed with people who love and care for me, Kirk, and our children so very much.

And on this day before Thanksgiving, I am grateful for Kirk. I hesitate to type these next words, because they feel so wrong in a way, but here it is - I am the luckiest person on earth. He wouldn’t have been the right husband for everyone, but he was absolutely the best husband for me. One of the things I think about a lot now is how fortunate my kids are to have been witness to our marriage. Until this happened, I had a general idea of what they thought of us as a couple. But now I know more from them what their memories of us are, and I have a whole new appreciation for the value they will get from having watched us. They did not see a fairy tale – they saw something real, and imperfect, yet still strong and committed. They saw two people who didn’t always agree, and at times got angry, but who always managed to get through it. Two people who genuinely liked, delighted in, and cared for each other. Two people who remained publicly affectionate and didn’t fall into the trap of living side by side rather than together. Two people who never, ever painted each other with the “wife as ball and chain” or “husband as lazy and in need of nagging” stereotypes. We were two people who loved each other openly and completely, for everyone to see, and hopefully for our children to emulate someday.

I have not mentioned this to most of you yet, but I am having some changes made to the stone on our graves. The front will be unchanged. But if you go there, walk around to the back. Soon there will be new words. Words I struggled to get right – right for the past, and right for the future. Words that will say who we were to each other - words that will be timeless. Here they are:

Their love, deep and true,
Was strengthened by life,
And is undiminished by death.

Happy Thanksgiving, my love.

Loss of Feeling

I saw him today. The person who killed Kirk – I saw him for the first time. There was an arraignment, and I went, and he was there. Cleaned up now – no more mullet, decent pants and sport coat. But the face was unmistakable – still young, still pudgy, still blank. I was very nervous ahead of time about seeing him. I thought I would be overwhelmed. With anger, or sadness, or both. That maybe I would want to hit him. Or confront him, to make sure he knows how he has hurt us. Or to look in his eyes and ask why – what is the TRUTH of that day?

But incredibly, I felt nothing at all. Just empty, and lonely, and a little sick to my stomach. But no emotion toward him whatsoever. I couldn’t believe it – I was (and still am) shocked at myself.

What is wrong with me? How could I see the person who killed – KILLED – the person I loved so much, lived with every day, was supposed to grow old with, and feel no feelings? I have let Kirk down again. I know what you are all thinking reading this. You are protesting, composing the email you will send me or message you will leave me – “don’t feel that way,” or “you haven’t failed him.” I think I have though. It has to be a failure to be unable to muster up any emotion toward a person I should feel so much about. If someone had killed me, I know Kirk would be so angry for me, for him, for the kids, for everyone else. But I had nothing. I haven’t felt anger at this person for so long, but I thought seeing him would trigger it. I don’t understand myself.

As I sat in the car afterward, I tried to sort out my feelings – or lack thereof. At first, my analytical nature kicked in – feebly - as I tried to figure it out. Maybe I am numb. Or still in denial. Or unable to connect this harmless looking person with the awful thing that he did. But I gave up – I have no energy anymore for analysis. I just know I didn’t feel anything. Except for when I was in the hall afterward and had to choose whether to walk within two feet of him, or hang back. I started toward him, but turned back after a few steps. I couldn’t do it – come so close to him. It was like there was a field surrounding him I couldn’t bring myself to enter. I don’t know what I thought would happen – that I would shove him? Give away my presence, let on who I was? Start to cry? All I know is that there was no way I was getting so close to the person who sent Kirk so far away.

When I left the courthouse, I drove for a while, not going anywhere in particular. I ended up sitting in parking lot thinking some more. As I sat there, I realized that nearly two years ago I sat in the same parking lot. It was the day before I interviewed for my job here, and I had arrived a day early so I could look at the area. I pulled into the parking lot to look at a map, and while I was looking, Kirk called me. I remember the call – he got online and was looking at the area also, and we talked about where I should go to look around. Our goal was to try to see what the neighborhoods in the area were like. We were hoping to find an area near the water, so we would have easy access with the boat. Kirk realized that I was just a couple of miles from a lake, and got excited because it looked like there was a neighborhood with easy water access, so he asked me to go there. I did, and we talked the whole way, only to find that the “neighborhood” he saw on the map was part run down trailer park and part crazy religious compound. We laughed and talked about which one we would fit better in, and decided the trailer park was the place for us. It made me sad and happy today to sit in the spot where we had a happy, normal conversation, about the promise of a new phase of our lives.

I apologize for disappearing on all of you for so long. I know it has worried you. It’s not just the blog I have been neglecting – it’s the estate attorneys, the financial planners, the tombstone company, the insurance companies. I owe them all answers, and I have ignored them all. I have been busy, but that wasn’t really why. I think it is mostly that I have been so empty. Sad at times, but mostly just empty, almost devoid of feeling, and not thinking much either – I just haven’t been able to summon up the energy for it. No feeling and thinking means nothing to say, no need to write. Today seems to have caused a crack in that though. Soon after I left the courthouse I discovered I seem to be “feeling” a little again. Weird to say, but I hope if feeling is coming back that it’s sadness. I’m not ready to be done with the sadness yet.

As I start writing again, here is what I most want to say. I LOVE KIRK. When I don’t write, there is no one to say it to, and now that I am writing again it feels like it’s all that wants to come out of my fingers. I LOVE KIRK I LOVE KIRK I LOVE KIRK. You are the only audience that makes me feel like I can say it as much as I want, so I hope you’re still out there.

Enough for tonight – I will be back soon.

Grand Jury Outcome

Just a quick update to let you that David N. Cook (the driver who caused the accident) has been indicted for manslaughter. It will be quite a while yet before next steps happen - first it will be assigned to a different prosecutor. I have been assured that I will be told who it is assigned to, and that I should have the opportunity to meet with him/her before any plea discussions happen, but that I may not hear anything for several weeks at least. For now though I am relieved to be over this first big hurdle.

Thank you all for caring.

Ring Stories

I wear three rings and there is a story for each. They bring me comfort now – they feel like my link to the past. Reminders that are with me – on me – every minute, no matter where I go. I can look at them and remember the stories, and what they say about who he was, what our history was. I take better care of them than I ever have – I take them off when I wash my hands, I clean them regularly, I inspect them to make sure the prongs are strong.

On my right hand I wear a ring he gave me about 15 years ago. It all started when I went to the mall to run an errand one day on my lunch break. I took care of the errand, and on my way out, stopped in a jewelry store on the edge of the food court. I stopped to “visit” a particular ring. Gold, with an emerald cut sapphire, and three diamonds on either side in a stair step formation. I loved the ring, and had been admiring it for months. I never would have bought it for myself, or told him about it. We could have afforded it, but it would have been self-indulgent. There were too many other things more important to our family.

As I was standing there, I glanced up, and across the food court, there was Kirk. He was in the entrance to Penneys, and saw me at the same time I saw him. Such a small thing, seeing each other by surprise in a place neither of us would normally be at that time. We were excited and happy to see each other – a treat in the middle of an ordinary day. It was especially surprising because he HATED the mall, and virtually never went there. He thought JC Penney was the height of fashion, or good enough – I’m not sure which. Its primary appeal to him was that it carried everything he needed and could be accessed by an exterior door to the parking lot so he never had to enter the actual mall. Even so, I generally shopped for him. That day, though, he decided he needed something and went there the same time I did.

We walked to meet each other, and he asked what I was doing. I said I was visiting a ring. He asked what I was talking about and I explained, and took him over to see it. Then we had lunch and both went back to work.

About three days later, I came home from work to find the table set for dinner and a box on my plate. Sure enough, the ring was inside. No reason – not my birthday, Christmas, anniversary, Mother’s Day. Like the flowers he often bought, he gave it to me just to make me happy. I was uncomfortable with it – I knew it was expensive, and kept thinking of all the other things we could do with the money. He insisted I keep it. In many ways it is my favorite ring because the only story behind it is his desire to surprise me and make me happy.

On my left hand is a diamond ring. I like it, but it is my least favorite ring and has no emotional value. It is a replacement ring, purchased with insurance money after a ring I loved was either lost or stolen. That first ring was an anniversary ring that Kirk gave me maybe 12 years ago. It was an anniversary gift, and had 5 graduated marquis diamonds with two baguettes on each side. I was shocked when he gave it to me – I had no idea he was planning it. I found out later that when he shopped for it, he knew he wanted an anniversary ring, but had no idea what style. He picked it by having the saleswoman put on one style at a time, then watching her from a distance while she attended to other customers. She told me he had her wear each style for at least ten minutes. He just waited in the store for hours, watching how each ring looked on her hand as she worked. Then he picked the one he thought had the most sparkle and color as she moved. I love the thought of him standing there for so long, focusing on picking just the right one. So much more commitment than most people would put into the choosing. I loved that ring, but six years ago, I was in an airport, about to go through security, when I realized a prong in the ring was loose and I was about to lose a diamond. I took the ring off and zipped it into an inside pocket of my purse. I didn’t look in the pocket again until I got back home – three airports and two security searches later. The ring was gone, never to be found – either lost or stolen during one of the searches I assume. I didn’t file the insurance claim for months, because I kept searching for it, refusing to accept it was gone. Finally I had to acknowledge it was, and the insurance company accepted the claim, but I still couldn’t bring myself to buy a replacement. I looked and looked for a full year, never finding another ring like he had chosen, or one I loved nearly as much. After twelve months the insurance company told me if I didn’t pick something else they would have to close the claim, so I finally bought the ring I wear now. It is pretty and I like it, but I feel no attachment to it, other than when I look at it, I think of the one it replaced, and of him standing there watching a strange woman’s hands.

And finally, most importantly, the wedding band I now wear on my left ring finger. It was his. This is the longest story of all.

We eloped (a story I know I have not yet told you, but I will someday). We were broke, and had no rings. Instead, we put a matching set on layaway at Nusbaum’s I think - one of those old catalog showrooms (those of you under 40 will not know what this is because they don’t exist anymore). But before they were paid off, money became so tight we couldn’t afford the payments anymore, so we cancelled the layaway, got a refund, and promised each other we would get them someday. I am so glad now we never finished the payments, because in retrospect, the rings we picked were hideous and I would not be happy with them today.

We were “ringless” for several years after this. As a matter of fact, I remember being told by my sister Lauren that one day she was going to meet a friend for breakfast, and when they discussed where to meet, the friend wanted to go to a particular Perkins. She said there was a hot single guy who worked there that she had been eyeing for quite a while and she wanted Lauren to see him. They met and got seated, and pretty soon the friend pointed and said “There he is!” Lauren looked over toward the kitchen, and there was Kirk. She asked her friend what made her think that guy was single, and the friend said she had checked it out and he didn’t wear a ring. You can imagine the friend’s surprise when Kirk walked over to Lauren and they clearly knew each other – Lauren took great delight in informing her that the hot guy was her brother in law.

After being married about three years, Kirk bought me a wedding ring and small diamond engagement ring. They were very pretty, and fit together with a small hook shaped prong so they stayed connected. They came from JC Penney (tee hee – maybe that’s where his passion for Penneys was born), and many of you heard the story from my sister Susan at his funeral. He bought them using her employee discount, on sale, and on layaway. As you can guess, we were still pretty broke. Susan did a great job of helping him pick them out, and I loved them. I wore them both until he gave me the anniversary ring. Art that point, I stopped wearing the engagement ring, and wore the wedding band with the anniversary ring on my left ring finger, and the sapphire on my right. I still have that little engagement ring, but don’t wear it because the little hook in it doesn’t allow for wearing it alone. Someday I will have it reworked so I can wear it again.

Kirk remained ringless for many more years. It never bothered me, and he wasn’t really a jewelry person, so we didn’t do anything about it. But about ten years ago or so, he started having a real desire to have one. In his typical fashion, he didn’t want to spend the money on himself. Finally I convinced him to go shopping for one, and we picked one out. White and yellow gold. And as it turns out, spinnable. He loved to take it off, turn it on its side, and spin it on a table. It would spin forever once he got good at it. He loved that ring and always wore it once he had it.

His ring is mine now. When I had to tell the funeral director if he should be buried with it on, I didn’t know what to do. Burying it with him didn’t feel right, and I really wanted it as a memory of him. But burying him without it didn’t seem right either. Finally I figured it out. We had never exchanged rings in life – each of us came by our rings over time, separately. So instead, we exchanged them after he was gone. I kept his, and I gave him mine. It was, of course, too small to fit on his finger. So they tucked it into his hand, and he was buried holding it. I had his cut down to fit me, and now I wear it every day. It is the most important ring of all. Someday Erika and Matt will decide whether I should be buried with it, or if they want it, and whatever they decide will be okay with me. But for now, it is my link to him – every day I think about the fact that his finger was in it for years before mine, and it brings me comfort.

I am thinking about Kirk a lot tonight. I think about him every night of course, but tonight the thoughts are different. I feel a responsibility to him, to his loss, in a way I have not before. Tomorrow is grand jury day, and I am nervous. It’s the first big step in this process, the first time someone could tell me that the system does not agree that a crime occurred. What if they think it was just an “accident?” Tragic, but not criminal? I am realizing that although I have not assumed the other driver would eventually be convicted, I have been assuming he would be indicted. If he isn’t, it all stops. Done. No consequences, no responsibility taken. If that happens, I will be upset and angry, and I will question myself. Did I not push the DA enough? Not question the police enough? Should I have insisted on knowing what witnesses they were presenting, what evidence they planned to present? Should I have been louder, more insistent, so someone would have prepared more? I hope I will not have to face these questions – I’ve faced enough already.

Thank You

Sorry for being gone for a while. I have been occupied with traveling back to GA and SC last week to see friends (which was much needed and good for me) and a visit this week from our friend Nancy from back home (also much needed and very good for me). Next weekend my sister Amanda and her husband will arrive for a visit which I am really looking forward to.

So how am I doing? Well, the season of big events I had been dreading has commenced. So far, I have made it through both of our birthdays. How did it go?

I got through Kirk’s birthday as well as can be expected. For those who don’t know, I went back home to family and friends, and we had a get together to remember him. Friends in at least two other states also celebrated him that day – some even had birthday candles. The day was up and down for me. I went to the cemetery in the morning to have a visit and say happy birthday. I lay down with him like always. I talked some of the time, and lay quietly the rest of the time. I feel close to him there – sad but close. I decided that the topic of the day would be to tell him what I would have told him before he died if I had had the chance. All the way there, I thought about what I would say, and there was so much I couldn’t keep it all in my head. When I got there, I spread my blanket on the ground, laid down with him, and tried to organize it in my mind so I could say it out loud. All of a sudden, it was clear. It was “Thank you.”

Thank you for loving me beyond all reason. For giving me two beautiful children that I am so proud of and so happy to have for mine. For making me laugh every single day. For making me feel good about myself and for making me feel capable and confident. For not just loving me, but for telling and showing the world how much you loved me. For being my shower lifeguard so I could get clean without fear of drowning. For being proud of me and for being someone I could be proud of too. For being so delighted about life and seeing so much humor in the world that you made the rest of us feel and see it too.

Thank you for being my partner, not just my housemate. For working so long and hard to take care of us. For being romantic, like the time you kept sending me anonymous cards and gifts pretending to be a secret admirer until I got scared cause I thought they were from a crazy stalker. For taking me seriously, while making sure I didn’t take myself too seriously. For all the flowers you bought for no reason except to make me happy, most especially the ones you sent the day before you died. For being so delighted when I came home every day, and for waking up every morning when I left to say “Take a banana, drive carefully, I love you.”

Thank you for taking care of me when I got sick, for letting me sleep late all those weekends, for knowing when I needed comfort food. For reaching for my hand every time we walked together for all thirty years. For still being attracted to me, no matter how much weight I gained or how much older I got, and always saying (and meaning) that I was gorgeous, even when I clearly wasn’t. For setting such a good example for the kids, for being clear about right and wrong, for teaching them how to treat people. For surprising me so much and making every day new. For the “Welcome Back!!” sign you made for me after I left the room for only 10 minutes.

Thank you for sticking with me and fighting for me in the early years when sometimes I thought maybe we had made a mistake. For the secret and romantic Christmas gift you gave me a few years ago that I am not allowed to tell anyone about, that you didn’t want to give me, but you knew I wanted so much, so you bought it anyway just to make me happy. For not being perfect, but being perfect for me. For silently taking my hand and pulling me out of a chair to dance with you whenever “You Look Wonderful Tonight” came on. For changing – keeping and growing the best parts of you as you matured, and leaving the not so good parts behind. Thank you for being mine.

I know he knew while he was alive that I appreciated him, but I’m not so sure he knew just what for, or exactly how much. I hope he always felt it even though I didn’t spell it out the way I wish I had. I hope he heard me on his birthday. I know I didn’t say it exactly the way I just wrote it. Mostly I just said “thank you” over and over because the list is far too long to articulate. Hopefully he can fill in the blanks.

I also cleaned the stone that day. At the beginning of the visit, I left the cleaning stuff in the car, and went down the hill for my visit with him. Near the end of my visit, I got up to walk back up the hill to the car to get what I needed. I saw that while I had been laying with him, two men – one much older than me, and one about my age - had arrived and were visiting a new gravesite across the path. I think they were father and son, visiting a woman who must have been the older man’s wife. The son was clearly supporting the father, physically and emotionally – holding his dad’s arm as he walked, hugging him while his dad cried, fastening his dad’s coat. It made me cry – partly because I was sad they had lost their wife and mother, but also overwhelmingly sad for me. Seeing the father, much older than me, visiting his wife, hit me like a wall – all I could think is I am TOO YOUNG to be cleaning my husband’s tombstone. No woman my age, married to a man the same age, should be spending his birthday at the cemetery scrubbing grass clippings off of something that tells the world he isn’t there to celebrate.

I did it though. He wouldn’t like for his grave to be messy. Between me, his Dad and Sandy, and Matt, we try to keep it looking nice. It’s the closest we can come to taking care of him now. So I scrubbed the grass off, washed the stone, rinsed and dried it, and filled the bird feeder.

Then I went back to my sister’s house to get ready for the “party.” I made Kirk’s macaroni salad and “hard vegetable” salad, and did a good enough job that they actually tasted like his, which made me happy. My mom made her cheese ball that he loved, my sister Lauren made her appetizers, Matt made a big pot of hot sauce, and we had Zweigle’s hotdogs. The meal was not as elaborate as he would have put on, but it was good all the same, with lots of his staple picnic foods. Everyone came over, and I visited, talked about him, got hugs, and cried on the front porch by myself a couple of times. The best thing was that Kirk’s dad gave me a wonderful gift that day – two memories he had of Kirk that I had not known. The first was how Kirk won the Little League championship for his team as a kid. I had known they won, but never knew before that Kirk made the winning play. The second was that he said that Kirk had told him shortly after he met me that he had met the girl he was going to marry. Thank you, Kirk, for picking me.

Enough for today – I’ll tell you about my birthday another time.

Finally - Some Movement in the Justice System

Just a quick update to let everyone know that there is finally some progress in the criminal case. The DA has decided that the final charge against the other driver will be manslaughter. The case will go in front of the grand jury on October 22. Since I know many of you have not had exposure to the criminal system (no, Law and Order doesn't count) I will explain. My apologies if you already know this.

The grand jury does not decide guilt or innocence, nor does the defendant present any defense. The grand jury hearing is basically round one of the bigger process. The grand jury is composed of normal people from the jury pool. The DA's office goes in front of this jury and presents the basics of their case, and asks for an indictment on the charge the DA feels the defendant is guilty of. If the grand jury agrees that there is enough evidence against the person that he should be indicted, they return what is called a "true bill." This basically means the charges will go forward and an actual criminal trial will be scheduled. It does not mean the person is guilty or will be found guilty - just that the DA has enough evidence to hold a trial.

Grand jury proceedings are closed to the public, so we cannot attend. The defendant is also not there the whole time, and cannot have a defense attorney present. One of the things that is different about a grand jury is that they can ask questions of the DA, of the defendant, and of witnesses. I am told that in this case the grand jury proceeding is a slam dunk and that there is no doubt that they will indict him.

I am happy that this has been scheduled, but frustrated at the system still. You may recall that about 5 weeks ago I wrote that I had talked to the DA's office and they had just gotten the case. They told me that the very earliest I could expect anything to progress was the end of September. I waited until yesterday, and then called them. I was told these things take time, you need to be patient, we have a ton of cases, yada, yada, yada. No one seemed to know the exact status of THIS case - they kept giving me generic answers about how the process works in general, but no one knew what the current state of this particular case was. They just kept saying it is in "intake." In a nice but firm way, with a few unintentional tears thrown in, I pitched a fit and talked to about four people. They all reassured me that it was not buried on someone's desk and that it was being "reviewed." I pushed and pushed until someone went and found the file and told me that it had been reviewed, and that the current state was that the DA was deciding what charge to bring to the grand jury. They told me that even after that was decided, I should expect it to be at least another two months before it would be ready to go to a grand jury, because the DA has to be sure first that the evidence is solid enough to support the charge. I requested updates every two weeks and they reluctantly agreed. Then lo and behold, at 9 a.m. today I get a call saying the charges are set and it has been scheduled. I think the case was never looked at at all until I made them go open the file, and that they then realized it is such a clear cut case they could go ahead and schedule. How much more "minimum evidence" do you need than a confession from the defendant, a police officer who witnessed the accident, and a mathematical reconstruction of the accident proving that the guy crossed into Kirk's lane while going in excess of 100 mph?

If I hadn't pushed I think the case would still be sitting there. How else do you explain them telling me it would take two more months, and then all of a sudden it's scheduled? At any rate, I'm learning what gets action and what doesn't.

I will know at the end of the day on Oct. 22 whether he's been indicted. I'll keep you posted.

Progress

It is a little over five months now, and I can feel myself moving ahead. I still often cannot grasp or accept that Kirk is gone, but the rawness of it all has largely dissipated, and the grief and sadness is not as wrenching. Instead, it has become something normal that I carry with me all the time. It is quieter and no longer shocking. And although I still never seem to feel truly happy, there are moments, usually when I see someone I really like, when my smile feels like it is getting closer to being a REAL smile. Closer to being a smile with my eyes as well as my mouth. Closer to being an inside smile, not just an outside smile.

This often does not feel like a relief. I don’t think I like that the emotional extremes have worn off, because it makes me feel further away from him. In some ways I would prefer to still be overcome with pain, just so I won’t be moving through life without him. You will notice that in the first sentence of this entry I said I was moving AHEAD, not moving ON. I don’t know what the difference is, but I guess to me, “moving on” sounds like a choice, whereas “moving ahead” feels unbidden. Whatever it is, it is definitely not a choice – this “progress” is just happening to me. I don’t understand it, but it is not in my control and I cannot change it.

Are you shocked? That I am beginning to progress? I am. Shocked, I mean. I could accept ADJUSTMENT after five months, but PROGRESS? How can I be doing better so soon? How can only five months be enough for me to feel even a tiny bit better, after 30 years of truly loving him? It doesn’t make sense to me, and I feel kind of guilty and sad and uncomfortable about it.

I just read the last paragraph and looked hard at the word “better.” Am I actually a little bit “better?” That’s the word that comes out of my fingers when I type, but is it the right word? I’m not sure it is. I don’t necessarily feel better, but I do know that I am different than I have been, and I’m not worse, and that this is easier than it has been, so I can’t find another word for it.

I finally took the sheets off the bed last night. Remember, the ones I have not washed or changed since he died? Sounds disgusting, I know, and in my other life, I would have thought so too. Five months on the same sheets? Inconceivable. But when you have forever lost the person who shared those sheets with you, changing them is what becomes unthinkable. I have long since accepted that they do not smell like him, the way I had hoped they would. But he died while I was at work, and when I left that morning, he was in bed, barely awake. That means those sheets are the last place we were together. And that the last time I ever saw him, or heard his voice, he was wrapped in them. "I love you. Drive carefully. Take a banana." The same thing he said every day.

Taking the sheets off is the closest thing to a religious experience I have had in a long time – maybe ever. I literally mean I felt reverent, even spiritual, as I did it, like the sheets were a symbol of worship, of something big and important. I didn’t just pull them off like I normally would. I handled them with care, like a priest with an altar cloth. I stroked them, smelled them, inspected them. I looked to see if maybe there was a piece of his hair somewhere. I didn’t find one. I saw that the fitted sheet is starting to fray in one spot, and I knew instantly what it was – the place where his feet touched every night, wearing thin because he always rubbed them over and over on the same spot as he fell asleep. He would rub them so hard against the sheet I could hear it. The sound sometimes kept me awake and I’d have to ask him to stop. I tried to ignore it usually though, because somehow the feeling was soothing to him, like a baby stroking a blanket while drifting off.

In the section where my head goes, the sheets have water spots – big ones. My first thought was drool – do I drool?! Then I realized – no, not drool. It’s tears. Five months and ten days worth of tears. I cried again taking those sheets off. I kept going though, not because I am grossed out by sleeping on them, but because I am as ready as I will ever be to take this step. I folded them carefully, and placed them, unwashed, in the drawer that has been dedicated to the only piece of clothing I have that smells like him – the shirt he wore the day before. The one with the hair clippings inside the neck from the haircut he had the day he wore it. The one I take out and hold when things are really really tough. I held it again last night, then closed the drawer, put the new sheets on the bed, and crawled in for the night. Baby steps.

I’m kind of scared to post this entry. Mainly because of the kids and his parents. What will they think? Will they be hurt? Because I have inched forward a little bit, so soon? Will they think less of me? Will they think I’m “getting over” losing him? I don’t think they will. I think they will be glad. I know I want them to be inching forward too, and would not see their progress as a lack of love or commitment to him. I would not think it would mean they are okay with the loss of him.

But maybe my progress will be hurtful to them. I am his wife, his partner. I am the only one of us who CHOSE him, who made a promise to him. I know the vow was “until death do us part.” How bizarre that vow sounds to me now – as if when someone dies, their spouse is instantly off the hook, no longer committed, free to walk away. Ridiculous. So as our family watches me, how do they reconcile the promise I made to him with seeing me moving ahead? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to show the most commitment? Shouldn’t I be the slow one? The one who should move ahead last? Or NEVER? I am struggling with these questions – why wouldn’t they? I hope they can tell that my vow – to love, to cherish, to honor - still lives. It is not eliminated by death, nor is it diminished by my progress.

I had expected that this journey would take me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other – that over a long period of time, I would move from extreme sadness back to real happiness again. I thought that when I got “there” (wherever in the future “there” is) I would sometimes feel happy, and sometimes feel sad, but that the happy moments would eventually come to be much more frequent than the sad. And that the happy and sad would be discrete – one or the other at any given time. But I am beginning to think I was wrong, and that this is not about moving along one emotional line, or having one feeling at a time. I think it may turn out to be parallel lines, and that where I will end up is carrying both feelings with me all the time. That I will eventually come to be happy even though I am also still sad.

I guess that’s okay. Maybe even good. Maybe if the moving ahead does not include fully giving up the sadness, it will make it more okay to keep going.

Trains

When I was a kid, I was really scared of nighttime (and all the scary things in it – mass murderers, monsters, the boogeyman, et al.) I was sure they were in my closet, out in the dark hall, coming up the stairs, peering in the windows. The worst was when I woke up in the middle of the night and everyone else in the house was sleeping. Every creak in the house was terrifying. I couldn’t go to my parents, because doing so would have meant putting my feet on the floor, and there was no doubt that whatever was under my bed would reach out and grab my ankle.

This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.

As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.

You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.

Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.

I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?

I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.

I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.