I will admit it, I was wallowing.  I was sitting at the counter crying.  I had just come in from being outside for the longest amount of time yet this season.  Trudy and I had done all our Sunday chores and we had been out with the chickens enjoying the sun.  Sitting in the adirondack chair on the porch, I had remembered a conversation James and I had last spring, when we first found out he was terminal.  “What if this is the last spring we have together?” we wondered that day side by side on the porch. It was so hard to even conceive then, but it feels just as hard even now in the reality of it. 

I was wallowing.  My tears were flowing and I was angry and frustrated and heartbroken that this was our “someday”.  This.  This beautiful home that he and I poured our dreams into; this amazing farm and all the creatures that live here with us; this Eden made together, perfectly suited to our way of life. But with a vacant seat next to me, it no longer feels like the dream we had been creating, it feels like a nightmare. This wasn’t a singular dream, but a shared one.  And none of it feels even remotely the same without him.

I was crying because there was no boiler in the turn-around, no taps in maple trees, no hoses filling buckets.  There had been no need for me to put all the sticks from the yard near the fire, no need for me to pull up a lawn chair and smell the sweet smoke as James made maple syrup. There were no boots on the porch column, propped up in relaxation.  No suggestion about whether we’d be snacking on chips and homemade salsa or bread with “dippy stuff.”  

And so I wallowed.  I felt sorry for myself.  I felt angry at the world on my own behalf.  I cursed cancer and the unfairness of life for taking him away from me, from here, from our dreams.  And I spoke with him as I sobbed, begging him to return, begging him to come back and live the rest of this dream with me.

And then I pulled myself together.  I dried my face and blew my nose and I sat back down.  I reminded myself that this is just a new chapter in my dream and I have had many new chapters before this – none nearly so hard, but still new chapters.  I thought back to the first time I had to reenvision my future – a time when I was divorcing my first husband.  The first time, perhaps that a dream didn’t go the way I thought it would.  I remember even as I tried then to create a new path forward, even as I studied and applied and got accepted to graduate school to pursue a Masters in Creative Writing, even that new dream never came to fruition due to a disagreement over custody.  “I have redefined and abandoned dreams before,” I reminded myself with soggy tissues in my fist.

I thought about the way my dreams were reshaped when I moved to Michigan. A risky move in the best of light, I uprooted my about-to-be middle school son and moved four states away from his father with no job and very little in savings.  It was a move that led me back to teaching though, it led me to a home with arched doorways and beautiful flower beds; it led Jacob to a debt-free college career and it eventually led me to James.  “I’ve done hard things before,” I told myself.  “And I did all of those alone, too.”

As I continued to sit, my breathing steadier now, my eyes dried and my focus narrowed, I thought more intently on all the ways my path has turned and detoured over the years and I heard the question rise in my gut, “What if…” What if my dreams had gone the way I had imagined them from the start?  What if my first marriage had lasted?  It might have been a life full of blessings, or sorrow, or indifference, we will never know, but I would never have had my years with James.  I would never have had this farm, this property, any property probably. “What if…” my mind continued.  What if I had gone to Bucknell for graduate school?  What if I had pursued my writing over twenty years ago?  I never would have been in the classroom.  I never would have had all these years with my students.  “What if…” continued to push my thinking, push my heart into crevices I hadn’t wanted to look at before.  What if James was sitting right here?  What if he was with me, on the bar stools at the counter.  What if he could talk to me right now, what would he say to me? He might say, “It’s circus money,” a phrase we picked up from the movie, “We Bought a Zoo.” What if the money he left isn’t just there to pad my retirement, or to help me manage the farm?  What if some of the money is for my next dream? 

The truth is, I don’t know what the future holds and if my time at the counter wallowing and questioning today is worth anything, it’s a good reminder that my plans don’t often go the way I intend them to. 

But, I was reminded today that my story does not yet have an ending, I am simply turning a page to a new chapter.  And if I know anything from these past experiences, it’s that I can trust the next chapter.  I can trust that it will turn out okay, and not only that it will turn out okay, but that it will be full of joy and blessings.  I can trust from my experiences that it will continue to make me feel more like myself every step of the way.  I can trust whatever direction I pursue it’s a path that will use my talents and passions and it will push me forward into new adventures.  

I can trust the next chapter and everything that comes with it because I am the author.

A year ago today, Valentine’s Day, James and I were working through a disagreement.  No different than any other couple in a long-term relationship, we seemed to always return to one central issue when we fought, and the days prior had been spent trying to create a way through and forward.  School was off for the day, but I would have been off work anyway as we had a routine follow-up at U of M with the surgeon who had performed James’ ear surgery the previous June.  It wasn’t the first routine follow-up check, but it would prove to be the last.  Nothing was routine after that. 

But the truth is, I wasn’t there.  We were still sore with each other and I knew his retreat into silence would make four hours in the car feel like an eternity.  So I stayed home and he went to see Dr. McLean.  And for the life of me, I may never forgive myself for not being there beside him, holding his hand when the doctor said the words that would turn our world upside down once more, “How long have you had this lump?” Our fight went by the wayside in that instant, whether I was there or not, and our battle, as it always should be, became a fight of us against cancer, never us against each other.  

It’s been 365 days since we had an inkling there was a problem.  It would be a month after that when we would learn that it was terminal and, without treatment, our time left together was at most, perhaps a year.  We did everything we possibly could, tried every treatment they could give him and we got ten very short months out of it.  

Just a few days ago was the anniversary of the day I met James.  In the two months since he’s been gone, I’ve been through the holidays, our tenth anniversary, the anniversary of the day we met and today, the anniversary of when we learned the cancer was not contained.  I have cried, I have screamed, I have thrown things, I have buried my head under the pillows, I have regressed into silence and isolation and I have struggled to even get off my knees at times. 

But my grief, my sorrow, my anger, my fears are all deep and profound because of love.  Because of love.  Because of deep and profound love.

And so, today, instead of dwelling on my regrets, or my loss, or his suffering, or his absence, today, I have intentionally set my sights on finding joy.  I sat with the hens and listened to their clucks and squawks.  I thanked them for the eggs I ate for breakfast and I fed them warm oatmeal for theirs. 

I slowed my pace walking near the flower beds and found crocuses inching up from the winter soil.  I watched Trudy run and run and run and I threw her football and we both basked in the unseasonable temperatures.  I found the cat sleeping in a ray of sunshine in the bedroom.  When I look around I see a beautiful, safe home.  I am blessed with friends and family and I have no worries of job loss or financial ruin. 

But most of all, today, and I hope for as many moments as I can hold tightly in my soul, I know that I have had the privilege of great love.  I have been blessed by and lived within and shall move forward with the strength and power and joy that comes from such a friendship, such a shared life and from a love as great as ours. I held his hands when we said our vows and I held them again when he drew his last breath. Love was there in the bar when we met and love was there in the room as I wept at his loss. But love remains still today. It has not ended, and even more importantly, it never will.  

Today, and always, love prevails.

It wasn’t easy talking with our financial advisor, making decisions about the money.  It’s our money, it’s your money.  It isn’t easy to make decisions and think about the future without talking with you, planning with you.  

It isn’t easy going to the store.  The list is so short, and the things that sound good are things you made for us and they sound so good because the memory is laced with visions of you standing in the kitchen preparing dinner, talking about our days.  The memories are also tainted with how difficult enjoying food became for you; the struggle to find something that wouldn’t cause you discomfort, the heartbreak at seeing a many who loved good food not able to enjoy any of it anymore.

It isn’t easy to be alone in this house.  I try to stay as busy as I can, but by evening, when the sun sets and the TV comes on, everything feels dark and empty.  Trudy goes outside and lays on her perch for hours.  “Yellowstone” might be the worst choice, but there isn’t a show on that doesn’t remind me of you.  

It isn’t easy to go to bed.  Another day spent without you, another night without you there.  I want to sleep, but I don’t want to wake as the mornings are so hard, the reality of your absence is tangible.

It hasn’t even been easy to be with friends.  They are our friends, afterall, and being with them punctuates your absence.  You were always there with me.  I miss seeing you across the table, or sitting next to me.  I miss when our house was filled with friends and you were there at the heart of it all.  They weren’t my friends, they weren’t yours, they were all ours. 

I miss our conversations. It isn’t easy to be all alone.   I am surrounded by friends and family and yet I’ve never felt so lonely.  I sat out on the porch today, on this beautiful, sunny winter day, with temps high above normal and thought of the hundreds of hours you and I have sat side by side in those chairs just talking.  There’s no one to talk with like that.  There’s no one to sit and dream with, to sit and reminisce with, to sit and savor the moments on the farm with.  

It isn’t easy to go to school and write plans knowing that I’ll return to work next month.  It isn’t easy to even picture trying to teach, trying to focus on the lessons and the kids and all that they need from me.  It isn’t easy to get in the car and come home to an empty house.  The realization that you aren’t just down at the barn or running to the hardware store hits hard every time I come up the drive.

And today, it sure isn’t easy to know that a dozen years ago I met you.  The night before the Super Bowl, you sat down beside me and changed my life forever.  I am, without a doubt, better for the time we spent together, but my god how I want more years.  

It isn’t easy to remain in this life, to live in the midst of our dream, to look out over our farm, from our porch and to know that it will never be what we had dreamt it to be anymore.  It isn’t easy to let that go, to accept that reality, to find any peace about it at all.  

I just want you to come back.  I want you to be here, with me.  I want our life back.  I want you back.  I don’t need it to be easy, I just need it to be together.

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.