This morning I came across a note you left me when we were in Whistler. Made me think I oughta write you one of my long-ass letters. Been a long time since I’ve done that.
Hey, so my hands smell like meat. Ben came to hang out this afternoon, and I defrosted the Kobe dogs. I was stumped on what to feed him for dinner until I remembered you got those. “I touched meat for you,” I told him, “That's how much I love you.” I use the food you’ve bought—vinegars, frozen things—and get sad(der). Someday it will all be gone. All the stuff here will be stuff I bought.
As I was cutting him some strawberries I thought of how some mornings I’d come down for breakfast and you’d already have a bowl of cut strawberries waiting for me in the fridge with a little tag: For my wife.
Earlier as Ben was starting to build a new house in Minecraft he asked me, “What color do you think I’m going to choose?” “Red?” I answered. “Yup, Victory red. I changed my favorite color to Victory red.” He misses you. Also he’s spawning Minecraft polar bears like crazy right now.
I started crying talking to him a few minutes ago. We’re both on the big couch and intermittently chatting while he builds stuff and I type. He asked if his friends can come over. I said sure. “I mean not today, as it’s a bit late for that, but sometime, sure.” He replied, “Even though I don’t live here?” I told him, “You don’t live here anymore, but it is your house. You have stuff here—” this is the part where I lost it and couldn't talk for a sec—“ and your dad is here. It’s still your house.” We got kind of weird and quiet like we all do when this happens, and then he told the Stupid Megan joke to lift us. I love that you told the kids about Stupid Megan; we laugh about it all the time. Ben’s so much like you. He's tender and kind, and he thinks he’s hilarious. He’s right about that. Just like his dad.
Don't think we only cry about you. We laugh a lot too. Like about that time that you fell asleep sitting up right next to your gate in the Portland airport and missed your flight. Dude.
There is so much I want to tell you. All the things. I want to tell you the good things—how kind people have been to your family since we lost you, how much your kids and I enjoy being together, how effing cute your grandson is. And I want to tell you the shit things, like even though I don't physically weigh more than when you died I feel like the space around my heart gained thirty pounds. A lot of the time I sag when I stand.
I miss you so much that my breathing gets messed up. I'll suddenly wonder why I'm uncomfortable. Then I remember that I need to exhale. I went to class this morning and when Cassie talked about breath, like yoga teachers do, I thought, Yeah right, like I can even breathe at all. I went through a week or something like that where I thought, “Okay, so I don’t cry all the time. Alright.” That’s gone. I’m constantly weepy. Everything is so up and down. Dammit, the only thing that's certain is that you really aren't coming home. Jim, you bastard, just come the hell home.
This totally blows. You belong here. Not wherever you’ve gone to. 40 days. You’ve been gone 40 damn days. I’m still a mess. I’ll probably be a mess forever. Sometimes I try to talk to you aloud. Yeah, that doesn’t work; I hear a blood rush in my ears, my throat starts to close, and there's tears all over again. We had it so good. At least we knew it and didn't take it for granted.
I was tidying my nightstand last night and found another note, one of your 3x5 card love notes from a while ago. “My Sweet Wife, Every day I fall more in love with you . . . ” Gosh, I miss you. Thank you for leaving me notes. Yeah, they make me cry when I read them, but how great that I have them since they make me smile too. I am so grateful I had you.
Oh, and oh my gosh, the freezer drawer in the cabinet? I totally turned that into an ice cream-only drawer. How did we not think of that earlier!? It’s stocked with, like, $200-worth of ice cream. It’s freaking genius. And tonight Ben had cookie dough ice cream instead of plain chocolate like usual. It way weirded me out.
All my love, really—all of it,