My best friend in college was named Jen. Not Jenny, not Jennifer, but Jen. She was the first vegetarian I knew and she defended women’s rights in ways that were gentle and persuasive. She was completely focused on her studies, a pre-med major, she never dated, didn’t party and was meticulous about her work. Years later, I was invited to a small reception after her wedding to a man she met while in graduate school. Seated at a table with her friends from high school and college combined, I learned that she was known in high school to be quite social, that she loved the McRib sandwich and that she was called, “Jenny”, a version of her name I would never have dared to utter in college. She had reinvented herself when she went to college and it became apparent, seated at that table of friends, that we had known a very different version of her.

There is a version of me that exists in the world right now. “Survival Girl” is the superhero name I’ve given her as she saves me time and time again from situations where I feel like I might drown in my grief. Going out with the girls for music Bingo? Survival Girl is the one who shows up. She can hear all the songs James would have not just sung along to, but how he would have hammed it up, making everyone laugh, probably messing up more than one lyric intentionally or not be the death of her. “Survival Girl” is the one I take with me at the grocery store. She can shop for one without getting overwhelmed by the tangible absence of him there. Every food is a reminder. Every dish I intend to make speaks directly to his absence as head chef of our household. “Survival Girl” is the one who goes out occasionally to a dive bar a town or two away. She sits and listens while others sing karaoke, surrounded by strangers who do not know her story and who let her sit peacefully alone in a crowd satisfying my need to be social without have to actually interact with people in any meaningful way.

But every superhero has their kryptonite and for “Survival Girl” it’s the empty adirondack chair on the front porch. It’s a tough one to face on any given summer afternoon, but pulling up the drive after being at school all day is more than even “Survival Girl” can handle.

James’ work schedule meant he was home by noon every day. He would often work around the farm in the afternoon, but even when he took a much-deserved nap, he always set his alarm to be up by the time I came home from teaching. Weather permitting, he sat in his chair on the porch with Trudy at his feet waiting for me to come home. I can hear him trying to keep Trudy from running right to my car as I pulled in the garage, an effort that was all but wasted on her enthusiasm. I would kiss him as I passed by to my seat on the porch, and leaning in, I’d smell diesel fuel more times than not. He’d have his work boots on and on cool days a plaid shirt over his stained t-shirt. And a hat. Always a hat on his head.

We would sit and talk, or more accurately, I would talk and he would listen for as long as I needed to vent or celebrate or explain my day. When I’d finally come up for air and ask about his day he would dismiss his side of the conversation with the always ironic, “My day? It was nothing. I look at dead stuff.”

Those seats are the reason we canned so much salsa. Our hours looking out over our property often led to a snack and hours later, feeling blessed beyond reason, one of us was bound to make the understated declaration, “Pretty good life we have here, Babe. Pretty good life.” Even “Survival Girl” can’t survive that empty seat. Not after teaching all day and pulling up the drive. It hits me every.single.time.

So instead, I pull into the garage and go straight into the house through the mudroom and I change my shoes and Trudy and I go for a walk. It’s a good change for both of us, even if the empty seat is still there when we come back up the drive after our walk. By then it’s time to come in and start dinner. It’s time to do the things around the house that need doing. It’s time to move forward.

I kept in touch with Jen for a few years after she got married. As far as I know she never went back to eating McRib sandwiches or any meat for that matter. She never changed her nickname or became an extroverted socialite. I don’t know how long “Survival Girl” will exist. I don’t know how long I’ll need to avoid, cease, alter or change my daily habits and routines to ease the sharp sting of his loss. I know that for now, it’s a necessary part of me. It’s the only way I can move forward without him. It’s the only way I can say, “I’m good,” when people ask, knowing I’m often far from it. It’s the only way I can mow the lawn, pay the bills, cook dinner, grocery shop, or just sit on the porch and still hold myself together.

So when I attend Game Night with my friends in a couple weeks, you bet Survival Girl will be the one showing up. She will laugh and smile and play cards and lose at Scattergories using all her superpowers to hold it together, to be funny on his behalf and to be strong despite being alone. Maybe someday I will feel a return to my old self. Maybe I will be able to exist in times and places with people and not tangibly feel his absence. Or maybe this is just how it’s going to be. Maybe “Survival Girl” is the new version of myself that will forever move forward from here. Maybe these changes aren’t just temporary fixes but permanent solutions to survive without him.

Maybe the empty chair will always be kryptonite.