My therapist gets paid by the hour, but today I think she thought she got paid by the number of times she said, “Says who?” 

I really thought when I went in today that I was doing better – not that I would say I’m doing well, don’t misunderstand me – but perhaps a smidge better, like I had just the tiniest grip on things.  She asked how I was doing and I said that I was slowly getting things accomplished and she asked about the kinds of things I was trying to accomplish and somewhere in my explanation, the tears just started rolling.  It shouldn’t have taken a therapist, but it did, to tell me these things I was trying to accomplish seemed to be causing stress and anxiety.  I agreed, many of the things on my list do cause me stress, or they upset me, or they are emotional landmines, but that the list, nevertheless, needs to get done.  

“Says who?” 

Well, surely, at some point, life has to move forward, I have to figure out how to function so I need to get a start on that now.

“Says who?”

Well, friends and family extend invites, school has applied pressure about my return, the to-do list stares at me dauntingly, and I have told myself that I need to get out, I need to return to work before long, that I have to get this to-do list under control. 

“Says who?”

Says the pressure, intended or not, from the world we live in. Says my inner voice that tells me I need to suck it up and get moving forward. Grief makes us all uncomfortable, and so we want to rush the process, we want to push through and “get to the other side.”  But there, apparently, isn’t “another side.”  We, as my therapist reminds me, have to learn to live with the grief.  It will always be with us, but we need to give ourselves the grace and time to settle in to that new way of living.

Before I left her office, I explained that school was asking for documentation to support my extended absence.  She readily agreed to provide me such a note, and began asking me for the details of where it needed to go and to whom she should address it.  “I am going back on March 13,” I added, a remark that caused her to look up sharply from her notebook.  

“Says who?”

Well, says me, again, I guess.  “It’s the date I said I would be back,” I explained.  She asked if it was flexible, if I was out of leave time.  I explained that I still had more sick days, but that at some point I had to return, I had to get back to work.  She didn’t add in another phrase-of-the-day to the conversation, instead she simply said, “Yes.  But together, let’s determine that timeline.”

Afterwards, in the parking lot, I texted friends that I was supposed to go out with tomorrow and politely declined.  “Another time,” I texted, without committing to a time or place, I gave myself room, as my therapist suggested, and I gave myself grace, “I thought I was ready, but it’s still too hard right now,” I explained.  My friends will understand.  One is also a widow and the other is facing the anniversary of her dad’s passing later this week.  All of us are grieving.

None of us are immune to loss.  I was reminded today that there is no set order or process or timeline or checklist or protocol for grieving.  My to-do list will get done when it gets done.  I will, at some point, return to work.  I wil, at times, go out with people and interact with family and friends, but I will do so when I am able and for everything else, I am going to extend grace, give myself room to grieve and not cast judgment on myself for how long that takes or what I need to work through it all.  Because no one else can determine what I need. 

Says me. (Well, and my therapist.)

It’s January in Michigan, my least favorite time of year. I’ve been tackling paperwork, sorting through accounts, sitting on hold for what feels like hours on end and adding things faster to my to-do list than anything I’m crossing off. I took the advice several people have offered and have accepted invitations out with friends. Nothing, and I mean nothing has been easy, but I’m putting one foot in front of the other even if it is with tissues in my pockets and tears streaming down my face most times.

This weekend I decided to address the walk-in closet which has been anything but. When we moved the hospital bed and all its accoutrements into the bedroom, I shoved all kinds of things into the walk-in that didn’t belong there. Even since the departure of all that equipment, I have continued to shove odds and ends behind the closed door promising to deal with it all later. This weekend felt like “later” and if I ever wanted to actually be able to get to my clothes again, I needed to address the disaster. But that meant dealing with James’ clothes, the most personal of all the items I have been through thus far. It was more painful than I had even prepared myself for. Even keeping a stack of his things to keep for now, I struggled mightily with the cleaning out and all that it means. It’s obvious, but worth noting that James would have made a hard situation easier by finding a way to make me laugh. Only, he clearly isn’t here to do so even though I could really use that right now.

Which is why, today, when my son texted with the opening line of, “…in the spirit of living up to how Garrett and I are apparently fearless when it comes to embarrassing ourselves…” I jumped at the chance for distraction from my melancholy state and eagerly read his latest story.

Jacob, and his uncle Garrett are nothing alike other than the curls on their heads, but even then, Garrett keeps his hair cut remarkably short and Jacob has grown his out to this massive wave of curls down to his shoulders. That said, I have often remarked to them that they both possess the same ability to laugh at themselves with enviable ease and grace. Given the same embarrassing moments, I would hide from the world, deny all involvement and never tell a living soul what horrible thing I did to reveal my own vulnerabilities. But these two not only live the moment without shame, they unabashedly announce to the world what crazy thing they just did, and are able to laugh right alongside the rest of us while rendering the story. And today, and this month, and this year, Lord knows I need to laugh. Jacob will always be my greatest blessing, but today, he delivered via text message a blessing of a story which caused me to laugh straight from my belly, in a way that was long overdue and much needed.

The story, in Jacob’s own words was this:

Last night, Carissa’s work had a party at a shuffleboard club, which is basically if you took a roller rink and filled it with a bar and a dozen shuffleboard courts. Fun! Also, though some miracle, open bar! Even more fun! So we’re hanging out, and in classic nerd fashion, I’ve found the geekiest guy at the party and he’s telling me about the roof bar he rigged up…(this isn’t important to the story, I’m just setting the scene…)

After thirty minutes of me chatting with this guy while Carissa is catching up with her work peeps, her boss comes around and reminds everyone to grab food (which is also paid for). Food at this place is provided by a food truck that they’ve built a dock for on the side of the building. So, effectively, a giant open window in the side of this not-roller-rink, against which a food truck has parked and opened its awning into. So, we amble over and eyeball the menu and it looks baller (editor’s note: that means delish for anyone not in their twenties). It’s like a Cuban sandwich slash street taco crossover truck and everything coming out of it smells incredible.

A bunch of us order and settle in for the wait. (I later learn that the truck is staffed by one guy. It was supposed to be three, but one called out sick and another had to peel off to go do event setup or something, so for like half an hour, it’s just this one guy slinging sandwiches.) My nerd friend and I pass the time talking about how there’s a particular division of high frequency trading that considers the CPU’s they use to be expendable because they overclock them so hard, and before we know it, our food is ready. In classic food truck fashion, my sandwich looks delicious but it’s a little lacking in sauce. I take a few bites, and it is damn good, but really could use something more. Then I look up and see they’ve planned for this eventuality and provided a spread of hot sauces.

Now, Carissa and I lately have been working to build our spice tolerance a bit more. We’ve been having crunch wraps with Cholula (weak, I know), and bagel sandwiches with an amazing carrot and habanero sauce and knockoff gochujang on our stir fry. I am also tipsy verging on drunk at this poing and the idea of looking before I leap was one of the first to go. So, I grab the bottle labeled “habanero” and give myself a generous layered drizzle, plonk the bottle back down on the counter, and look up to see the food truck guy staring at me wide-eyed.

“I, uh, do you like spice?” he goes.

I shrug. “I’m always down for an adventure!”

“Okay, cuz that’s one of the bravest things I’ve seen in a minute.” He gestrues at the bottle of habanero.

Drunk me just grins, grabs some napkins and saunters off to find Carissa. I relay my apparent bravery to her and she frowns, looks at the sauce and goes, “Y’know, I would have tried the sauce first before slathering my sandwich in it.”

My addled brain processes this advice, decides it might be wise at this juncture to gain some understanding of how far up Shit Creek I might be, and I dip my pinky in and have a taste.

The pain was exquisite. It felt a bit like someone just poured molten gold into my mouth. My breath felt cool on my singed esophagus. Some distant part of me quailed at the notion of eating an entire sandwich liberally drenched in this hellfire, but mostly I grinned to Carissa and prepared to do battle with God. Sensing perhaps that this wasn’t a battle I should join unaided though, I did detour by the bar to pick up a frozen espresso martini, which I had determined to likely have the strongest calsacin inhibiting capabilities of the drinks on offer.

I made it through half of that sandwich. It was glorious. I could feel the sweat on my brow, this growing fire in my stomach. My lips had long since gone numb. I could still taste, in large part due to the generous gulps of espresso martini slush I was using to cool my mouth down. (Carissa, amused or concerned, stopped by and sipped on said martini, pulled a face, muttered something about it being insanely strong and disappeared back into the crowd. My ability to taste alcohol was long gone, I knew only that what little salvation I might find was at the bottom of that glass of slush.)

Eventually, I did give up, if only because some rational part of my brain did the math and realized that over-committing to that level of spice while obviously tipsy and apparently sprinting down the path to actually drunk would likely end in disaster. So I ran up the white flag, gave up on the sandwich and went in search of water.

You could be forgiven for thinking this is where the story ends, as I assumed as much, too. Our night continued without major incident, we returned home, slept, and so I thought, were more or less none the worse for wear.

Until phase two began.

You see, I’ve known the memes about when you get spicy food from Taco Bell and it’s delicious at the time, but you have to prepare yourself for the consequences later, typically in the form of an extended stay on the porcelain throne: I just always assumed that just meant, like, your gut would just be unhappy from eating crap quality food, or that the spice would upset your stomach or something, but nothing more. Nobody told me that for some unknowable, insane purpose, known only to God or the machinations of a universe with nothing better to do that to fuck with us, buttholes can feel casaicin, which is still present on the way out of the body.

My ass is on fire and I can’t feel my legs.

I hope you all laughed as hard as I did. Thank God for Jacob (and his uncle Garrett) who can both make me laugh at the crazy things they do. Especially today. Especially now. I sure needed the laugh.

We are supposed to be in Ann Arbor today. When the appointment date was shared with us, you looked at me, knowing the conflict, but I assured you then that spending our tenth anniversary in Ann Arbor was the best we could ask for. After all, that meant you’d be on your third immunotherapy treatment and even regardless of how you were feeling, it meant you were still here with me.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to spend this day. I can’t go back to where we met. I can’t go back to where we promised forever, sniffling through our vows with heavy colds. We laughed then at the “through sickness and in health” part. We laughed, then. I thought I might take your truck and drive the back roads like we often did, but I don’t know how to do that, either. I don’t know how to do any of this without you beside me. This world is grey, the light is gone without you. I know I cannot live in this sorrow forever, but to move forward is to go on without you and that is a reality I cannot face.

When we promised, “till death do us part,” I meant mine. I meant, mine.

The rain falling from the heavens above makes my heart wonder if you aren’t crying with me. Oh, how I miss you, Chief. Oh how I miss you.

Sometimes the road just ends
It changes everything you've been
And all that's left to be
Is empty, boken, lonely, hopin'
I'm supposed to be strong
I'm supposed to find a way to carry on

I don't wanna feel better
I don't wanna not remember
I will always see your face
In the shadows of this haunted place
I will laugh
I will cry
Shake my fist at the sky
But I will not say goodbye

They keep saying time will heal
But the pain just gets more real
The sun comes up each day
Finds me waiting, fading, hating, praying
If I can keep on holding on
Maybe I can keep my heart from knowing that you're gone

Cause I don't wanna feel better
I don't wanna not remember
I will always see your face
In the shadows of this haunted place

I will laugh
I will cry
Shake my fist at the sky
But I will not say goodbye

I will curse
I will pray
I'll relive everyday
I will shoulder the blame
I'll shout out your name

I will laugh
I will cry
Shake my fist at the sky
But I will not say
Will not say goodbye
I will not say goodbye
Will not say...

-Danny Gokey "I Will Not Say Goodbye"

I was supposed to go to my sister’s this morning.  Her kids were home and they were doing their family Christmas together at nine.  She had a ham dinner planned for noon and I had agreed to come for the tail end of gift opening and to bring deviled eggs for the dinner.  To be completely honest, and I write this knowing she and others will read it, I only agree to see people because I think it makes them feel better.  Personally, I’d like to stay home by myself forever.  I was never much of a people person before, but now, well, it feels too difficult. But, I had agreed, and so when my alarm went off, I got out of my warm bed and got dressed, even if it was more than just a tad reluctantly.

There are a thousand things about the day that I knew would be difficult, the least of which might have been Julie’s cheesy potatoes, one of James’ favorites, but just being together with her entire family but without him was going to be harder than I even wanted to admit to myself.  But I didn’t even make it out the door before I completely lost it. 

I have, I should note, no patience with eggs.  I raise chickens and I offer to take deviled eggs to any gathering simply because I always have an abundance, but the truth is, I have no patience whatsoever for peeling them. The slightest nick in the whites, the moment I can tell the shell is only coming off in a million tiny little pieces and I am out. I’m done. Left on my own, the stubborn-shelled eggs would end up in the compost bin every time. But this, amongst every other detail of my being, was something James not only knew, but something he acted on, saving me from my own irrational anger towards eggs on many occasions.  Except, of course, this morning.  I had done everything right, in terms of making sure they would peel easily, and yet, it was like this particular task was a pre-test for the day, and I was doomed from the onset.  By the third mutilated egg, I was sobbing and I was angrier than I had been in days.  By the sixth, I was slamming the eggs on the counter and pulling them apart with no consideration to the necessity of their intact-ness, but only to my need to be done.  To just be done.  In the end, fourteen mutilated and decrepit eggs lay before me in a heap of shell and yolks and whites and I stood in my kitchen and lost it completely.

I don’t know why peeling eggs always gets to me.  I don’t know why I can have endless patience at times (I teach ten year olds for Pete’s sake) but never do I have patience with stubborn egg shells.  James would have simply taken them from my hand and spent far longer than seems appropriate peeling each and every one, leaving me to devil them up when he was finished. He knew they easily frustrated me and he never laughed at me for it, or chided me for my extreme agitation with the task, he just stepped in and did it for me.  Because he loved me.  And, perhaps, to a lesser degree, he also loved deviled eggs. 

In the end, the chickens themselves enjoyed a hearty breakfast of eggs, never minding their decrepit state and I didn’t go to my sister’s at nine. I texted my apologies and crawled back under the covers with the shades drawn and sobbed for the next couple of hours.  I finally pulled myself together later in the afternoon and made an appearance at least long enough to ease my sister’s worry.  

When I lost my mom, almost thirty years ago, I couldn’t imagine a loss that would ever hurt like that one.  But losing James has been different entirely.  He was my best friend.  He was the one who knew me better than anyone.  He was the one I would talk to, vent to, cry with.  And now, in my greatest grief, he isn’t here to help me through.  This morning I took out my frustration at the incomprehensibility of this situation on unsuspecting eggs.  This sorrow, this grief, this anger, it feels like it will consume me.  It feels like it could swallow me whole.  Very supportive and loving people try to reassure me by saying I will get through this because I am strong.  Believe me when I say, strength has nothing to do with this.  I will get through this only because I have no other choice. 

I started to peel the first one, intending to add it to the oatmeal I made for the flock this morning but I stopped.  Left behind by the kids, bananas weren’t on my radar as something I wanted until the telltale brown spots reminded me of Mom’s banana bread. 

I used to bake.  Often.  Bake in my days of having a child at home.  Back when calories didn’t seem to matter (when was that again?) But baking went by the wayside years ago, an indulgence I rarely involve myself or my ingredients in anymore.  And yet…

These two bananas suggested bread.  Mom’s bread.  The kind of sweet treat that transforms an otherwise rotten fruit into a memory-soaked treat.  The ingredients are simple and old-school.  Everything mom had on hand daily -things that sit in my cupboards for months on end with little to no use, but which today had their moment of glory- flour, butter, sugar, eggs.  A dash, and a pinch.  I climbed on a stool to reach the bread pan, dusting it off before filling it with batter.  

Within the hour, the house smelled like home, like Mom and like Grandma.  It smelled like childhood.  I barely gave it time to cool before cutting two thick slices.  I slathered on some butter, an addition I never did before, but a flavor James could never get enough of.  I sat in the oversized chair and let the memory dissolve on my tongue.  

Thank you, Mom, for bringing me a moment of peace.  Thank you for letting me miss you without anguish.  Thank you for letting my childhood be something that comforts me now, in moments of my deepest sorrow.  

Thank you.  For the calming memory that two overripe bananas can bring.

I function as if on autopilot.  I have filled out complicated paperwork, held options and tough decisions in my head, I have even gone to school and written out meaningful lesson plans, but I am hollow, I am void, I am nothing.

I hold it together to go to the store, to have lunch with friends, to spend time with people.  Not because they expect me to have it all together, but because when I break it scares me.  When I stop fighting it and let the feelings rush, I am frightened by my anger, by my rage, by the depth of my sorrow.  

I got so mad, years ago, when my family first met James.  More than once I heard them say, “He makes you so happy!  It’s so clear to see how happy you are together!” They were right, of course, but I lamented to him at the time that I must have been quite the sour puss before he ever came along and thank goodness for my family’s sake that he did. But there was truth in what they said; he was my light.  He was my joy.  He was the very thing that made me laugh and made me smile.  He made me angry, too, but my anger came from the depth of my love.  

I stay up far later than I have in decades and I let melatonin help me sleep but there is nothing to help soften the reality of his absence when I wake.  The tasks on my daily to-do list are there due to his absence and only increase my awareness of this reality, they do nothing to help fill the void.  Paperwork full of questions he would easily know the answers to; cleaning a home he isn’t present in anymore; taking care of the animals that sense his absence as much as I do; even being with people – there is no escape from the constant suppressive feeling of his absence.  

I reluctantly went to school yesterday to do plans.  I might as well have been walking on Mars.  The classroom felt foreign to me; the concept of materials and creating learning experiences felt detached.  I typed, I copied, I gathered, I stacked and I left knowing I am so far from being ready to return.  

So where do I go?  What do I do?  How does a broken heart mend?  How do you recover when your best friend is gone?  How do I exist in a space that is so opposingly full and absent of him at the same time?  How do I exist in spaces where he is not or even be in spaces he never was?  Robert Frost says the best way out is always through, but I do not know how to do this world, this life, my life without James. We were to go through together, and left to my own, I am lost. He is not the only one who is absent for I have lost my soul.

James passed away far too soon, on December 14, 2022 from Stage 4 melanoma.  He died at home with his wife beside him. 

While his birth certificate reads “James Stephen Koehn,” few ever called him that.  He more often responded to, “Jimmy,” “Jim,” “James,” “Mr. James,”  “Jimmy Bonz” or “Chief.” Regardless of what name you used, James meant laughter, love and focusing on the simple joys in life.

Jimmy, the youngest by far of four, spent a portion of his childhood on a small farm in Yale, Michigan.  When chores were done, he often took off with a piece of rope, a pocket knife and a hot dog in his pocket to explore and play and discover the world with his hands and his heart. He tinkered, he imagined, and he dreamt of one day being a fireman or a police officer.  

In high school, Jimmy played baseball, mowed lawns and stocked shelves at the grocery store.  He umpired youth baseball games, relishing opportunities to help the kids learn the basics far more than the actual calling of balls and strikes.  During his senior year, the grocery store promoted him to working at the meat counter, a move that unknowingly began his career in the meat industry. 

Over the next several years, Jimmy/Jim would dabble in all the things that made his heart sing.  He took courses in criminal justice, worked three jobs at times and volunteered as a fireman.   He drove a tractor as often as possible, working ground or baling hay for local farmers – an itch to be out in the fields that never left him.  But, as much as these pursuits helped to shape the man he would become, it was the people around him who  proved to be even more influential. The Brockway Fire Department took Jimmy in as a volunteer, but treated him like a son. Likewise, at C. Roy and Sons Processing in Yale, Jim wasn’t just an employee, he was part of the family and remained so for the rest of his days.  

Jim eventually took a position with the USDA which moved him across the state to Plainwell, Michigan where he first worked as an inspector but eventually moved into meat grading, briefly moving to Souderton, Pennsylvania.  He stayed only a couple of years there before returning back to Plainwell to continue working in grading but closer to family and friends.  Working for the USDA, Jim met people with diverse backgrounds, beliefs and life stories.  He joked easily and enjoyed laughing with everyone.  He earned the nickname “Jimmy Bonz” at work after insisting with one friend that he could, in fact, be “a gangsta.”  It was the camaraderie of the people around him that made his otherwise uneventful days something to look forward to. 

In 2008, Jim met his wife, Amy, while watching a game at a bar.  Initially stunned that they had lived within two miles of each other in Pennsylvania, it quickly became apparent that they had been destined to meet all along and they married two years later.  James instantly became a welcomed part of the family.  He brought humor and laughter to his role as stepdad and husband and enjoyed being the fixer, the provider, the problem-solver and the entertainer as often as possible.  He became almost as attached to Amy’s elementary students as she did, often visiting her classroom and helping with special events.  Known to the kids as “Mr. James,” he often stayed for a bit after bringing Amy lunch just to see the students.  He began mentoring one in particular, a connection that lasted for years and benefited James as much as the student.

In 2015, James and Amy started living out their dream in earnest when they bought property in Paw Paw, Michigan.  Within a year and a half, two highland cows grazed the newly created pastures, maple syrup was being made each winter and a substantial garden was enjoyed in the summer.  Within a few more years, two more calves were in the field, an addition went onto the barn, a flock of chickens was added and they had begun planning for sheep, the latter of which never came to fruition – an addition put on hold with his cancer diagnosis.  “Chief” as Amy called him, gave life to every dream they shared.  Their most treasured memories were days working together on the farm.

James loved spending time in a yellow seat, sitting on the front porch, and laughing with friends.  He would generously do anything for anyone and would strike up conversations with strangers on a regular basis, especially old men.  He loved taking the back roads in his truck, or riding with the top down on the Jeep.  He loved playing cards, puttering in the barn and “scrapping” with his nephew.  He dreamt of visiting Montana, riding a bull and seeing the redwood trees with his wife. 

He made the notion of a “traveling shirt” legendary in the family and he even had a special spot by the barn where he would take time out of doing chores to fry up some sausage or bacon over an open fire.  He was the kind of man who stopped whatever he was doing to bring his wife a bird’s nest, a painted turtle or a baby rabbit.  James “re-homed” the racoons that got into the bird feeders, got up in the middle of the night to let the cat out and then again to let her back in, always had cow treats in the front pocket of his bibs, and enjoyed regular naps with the dog.  He loved his animals and believed, perhaps to offset his profession, that his life’s work was to give them a home where they were loved and cared for humanely. 

If you had the honor of knowing James, you knew that he was unabashedly funny.  He was known for embarrassing his wife with his antics in Hobby Lobby or Meijer and he made road trips and karaoke bonfire nights something to relish when he sang every word to “Convoy” or Katy Perry’s “Roar.” He could quote nearly every line in the movie “Tombstone” and envied the passionate courage of “Rip” from “Yellowstone.”  Words often failed him, but that never stopped James from saying them anyways.  He strongly and honestly believed the idioms as he said them, even when they made no sense and his attempts to pronounce some words often left everyone in stitches.   

James suffered the losses of his grandparents, his father, Gerald Koehn, his sister JoAnn Miller and his stepdad, Henry Roose.  He is survived by the love of his life, Amy, his stepson, Jacob (Carissa) Fenton, his sister Tina Parrish, brother, Jerry  (Margie) Koehn and mother, Evelyn Roose as well as several nieces and nephews.  But the list of those who have to move forward in this world without him is long and wide.  His friends stretched across the state and beyond.  His touch on people’s lives reaches from his childhood until his death.   

No services are planned at this time.  If you wish to honor the legacy of James, his family encourages you to plant a tree, adopt a pet, mentor a child, or volunteer for a cause close to your heart.  Monetary donations can also be made to Centrica Care Navigators, Brockway Fire Department in Yale, Michigan or the Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan. Whatever you do, James would want you to live your life to the fullest right now, today; to love with your whole heart; to never underestimate the power of a good laugh and above all, wear sunscreen.  Even inside your ears.

For my first official date with James, one of us suggested we should bring a list of our favorite movies in case we needed conversation.  We needn’t have worried about awkward silences as we talked as easily and openly then as we did throughout our marriage.  At a much later date, when we did discuss our favorites, we shared very similar tastes, but only one movie appeared on both lists, “Serendipity.” 

“Serendipity” seems like the perfect movie and most apt word to describe how we met.  Seated next to each other at a bar in Kalamazoo, Michigan – where neither of us had come looking to meet anyone, but just to watch the game – we learned we had lived within two miles of each other in Pennsylvania.  Our paths had unknowingly crossed when he moved from Michigan to Pennsylvania at quite nearly the exact time I was doing the opposite. I have often wished we had met then and had more years together, an empty wish that feels even more true now. 

The movie holds one of my favorite quotes, a scene where the best friend delivers a speech that has always touched me as a writer and a romantic.  The character, played by Jeremy Piven, is an aspiring writer, trapped in a career of writing obituaries.  Unable to formulate a good “best man speech” for an upcoming wedding, he instead, writes the groom’s obituary, embellishing his own prestige as an author, but speaking to the heart of the groom after a wild and at the time fruitless search for his true love.  He says, in part:

And he goes on to say, “…If we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call “fatum”, what we currently refer to as destiny.”

Today, I have set out to write my beloved’s obituary.  It took some persuading to get me to this point, but I think I always knew I could be the only one to do it. While making final arrangements at the funeral home the other day, the director asked me about James’ relatives, alive and deceased as well as his profession and it made me realize that a mere timeline of his jobs and hobbies and relations could never be a sufficient summary of his life. But there were 38 years before that fateful night at the bar, and while I know some of the stories and some of the people, I can only hope to do those years justice in how he became the man I instantly fell in love with.  

I hope that I can capture the “tapestry of events” that led to this sublime life here on Someday Farm.  I hope I can speak to all the ways that James lived in harmony with nature and its creatures, and ultimately, I hope that I can, find the right words to adequately describe a man in a handful of paragraphs beyond just profession or relations, to share with the world the legacy he leaves behind in all of us.

I’m sitting in the blue chair with Trudy who, if you can believe it, is even needier than ever.  The TV is idling through pictures of the bad selfies we took this summer – including that crazy one of you with the two hats and the plastic gun that we took in the gift shop in St. Joe, as well as pictures of the cows and chickens.  It feels like any other night, like you are just down the hall, in bed early and I am just finishing my show before joining you.  Except that you’re not. And when I do go to bed, hours from now – staying up late to help me fall asleep faster – I will turn left into the guest room and not right into the room I cannot bear to go into.   

Remember when we talked about the owls?  How I wondered what would remind me most of you, and make me feel like you were here with me, much like my family feels about Mom and cardinals.  Remember when we both said it would be the owls?  I heard you this morning, if that’s the case.  The great horned was outside and while most of me wants to say it was just a coincidence that warmed my heart, I’ll admit, I really want to think you’re telling me that you’re okay.  

I wish you were here, of course I do.  I wish I could tell you how horrible my day was.  I wish I could tell you about all the ways my heart broke today.  I wish I could ask you what the passcode is to the flashdrive you left, or if there’s anything else on there other than insurance forms.  I wish we had remembered to have you show me how to cut up the chicken thighs, since I have about ten meals’ worth in the freezer that I don’t know what to do with.  I wish I could vent to you about how much pressure I feel to write the best damn thing I’ve ever put to paper for your life story obituary. I wish you could fix the stupid toilet in the half bath or tell me why the cord on the back of the TV was covered in scotch tape. I wish I could give you more time to do the things on the bucket list I found in your phone today. I wish you could be here to tell me if it’s smart or stupid that I agreed to go to Florida.  I wish I could hear you say you love me one more time. I wish, and I wish. 

But what I really wish, more than anything, is that you could read and hear and feel the love that is pouring out for you right now.  From Rosemary who called your phone, happily getting voicemail just to hear your voice one more time or the people who have texted your number to say how much they loved you or how much they will miss you.  People I don’t even know.  I wish you could hear the stories that people tell me about you.  How the fire chief thought of you like a son and how they are going to put your name on the memorial at the fire station in Yale – something I know you would feel so very proud of. I wish you could hear how Gunnar’s mom called you a “real life angel” for changing her son’s life. I wish you could come up the drive in your truck and make your dog much happier.  I wish you could hear how sad your oncologist was today when she called.  I wish you could see our friends and how much they miss you already.  I wish you could know how many people have called me multiple times, ostensibly to check on me, but I think it’s to share and cry and laugh together over a man we all loved so dearly. 

I wish beyond wishes that you were right down the hall and that I would soon be there with you, and since I’m dreaming, I wish this stupid disease had never entered your body or our lives. 

I miss you, Chief.  It is taking everything I have when people ask me what I need not to just scream, “I need him back!” because that is the only thing I need right now that can make me feel any better.  You.  You are my person.  And you are so deeply loved and deeply missed.

Love,

Me

He is gone and I am drowning in the weight of my emptiness.