The Year of the Dragonfly

Dear Babe,

On the day that we died, I carried home two bags of cotton candy for you. One pink, one blue. I knew your sweet tooth would have a hard time making a decision and we would spend an absurd amount of time debating the merits of both. I could have decided for you – brought you home only one color – but I looked forward to the back and forth that would follow. The laughing, the rambling reasons both for and against each color, the eventual victory of one color over the other. Those were the moments I lived for.

We both died that night, however, and those hopeful bags of spun sugar were forgotten about; the pink vs. blue debate never made it past my imagination. You were 39 and I was 31 when we died – you physically, and me in every single other way. The bags of dessert on the counter were witness to the beginning of my destruction. Surely, they must have overheard the call that there had been an accident. An accident? What a very neat and tidy word for an implosion of two lives, for the twisted wreckage that became of every hope and dream.

I was never one to pray before. You knew that. On the ride to the hospital, I ticked off a list in my head of all of the deities that would perhaps listen to a dying woman grasping at straws. There were none. Instead I prayed to you. Please don’t leave me. Please hold on. Please wait for me. I love you. I love you. I love you. They wouldn’t tell us anything over the phone but I knew it wasn’t good. In fact, I felt the same rock of sureness in my gut that I felt the very first time I looked into your eyes. How could I argue with that? That was the first crack. It started in my gut and broke off into a million tiny rivers of ice throughout my body. We are not going to make it through this night, I whispered to you over the miles. I love you. I love you. I love you.

The hospital was a blur. It still is. I thank my body daily for the grace and peace of not knowing everything that transpired. But I remember seeing you when you were still in this world. Hooked up to so many machines but still just so handsome. My husband. My lover. My person. You looked so small with all of those people rushing around us but those lips were still so red. Our lives came singing back to me then, a medley of every look, word, fight, dance, promise, and hope that had ever come between us. I swear I felt you beside me. I swear you held my hand. I swear you knew it was your job to carry us both out of the lives that we had known and lead us into the darkness of the unknown – me left on this earth, and you on your way to another. I swear I heard your voice in my ear. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Not too soon after, you were gone from my world as quickly as you had been brought into it over ten years before. The ice rivers threatened to consume me. They spread throughout my body, leaving it cold where once there was heat and life. The girl made of glass. I waited throughout the weeks for the pebble that would shatter me into millions of pieces. It almost became a game, guessing when my demise would be completed, when I would be relegated to nothing more than a shell.

I screamed on the floor for hours, defying any higher power. A crack through my brain.

I held your clothes in my arms, curling myself into a corner of your closet. A crack through my heart.

I listened to your voicemails over and over and over again. A crack through my ear.

I beat my fists against our bedroom door until there were splinters and blood but you were not back here with me. A crack through my hands.

I waited for the cracks to fill with blackness and lead me away. I didn’t want to be me in a world where you were no longer you. I woke up screaming. I woke up crying. I woke up afraid that we would never find our way together again, that Amanda and Tom was only a short song that had been laid to rest in the twist of metal and debris on the highway. But as much as I wanted those cracks to expand until I was put out of my misery, I kept hearing your voice. I love you. I love you. I love you.

The crack in my brain became filled with your logic. What we had was too powerful to dissipate in the air.

The crack running through my heart ran red again envisioning our wedding day. Neither one of us is perfect but we love each other perfectly.

The crack in my ear began to sing the laughter in your voice. Good morning, Mrs. Valentine. Good morning, Mr. Valentine.

The crack through my hands toughened into calluses and gave me the strength to pick myself up and forge ahead. You can do this on your own. I will never be far away.

On the day that we died, I was also reborn. Into something more than just me, into something more than just you. I was reborn into a woman who is the best of me, and the best of you. A woman who is the best of us. And that is how I have made it throughout this year. Even on the days when I didn’t think I would survive. On the days I didn’t want to. Through the fear, and anger, and threatening skies. Your love courses through me and somehow I am strong. The world is funny like that.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

 

The Death of the Wife

Dear Babe,

I never grew up wanting to be a wife. Not that there was anything wrong with being a wife and not that I had a grievance against the population of wives, per se, but as far back as I can recall, it wasn't on my list of accomplishments. I wanted to be a novelist who lived above a patisserie in France. I wanted to lose myself in Monet's gardens. I talked about moving to be an actress in L.A. I perfected my accents in between classes. I pictured myself as a glamorous and mysterious adult that no one could quite pin down.

And then I met you. When I was nineteen and a college student and you instantly became the subject of the poems I laboriously churned out and then pinned against my bedroom walls. All of a sudden, a wife shot to the top of the list. I imagined yards of tulle and lace and flowers and music and smiles. I pictured children who looked like me but laughed like you. I looked years into the future and saw me waiting for you to get home from work with a smile on my face - just like in the black and white shows my father made me watch when I was little. And I was okay with it. Not just okay with it - I was thrilled by it. By the very idea of belonging to you forever.

And then our day came. Not just like that, of course. It took years of patiently waiting while you decided that commitment and marriage weren't four letter words. It took perseverance and compromise and uncertainty and faith - and even a little bit of blind luck. But we made it. And on June 16th, 2012 I walked down an aisle to you and promised you for better or worse. And I held your hand and took your name and we started on a journey together.

Not surprisingly, marriage wasn't at all what I thought it would be. It was a lot more mortgage and house repairs than roses and candlelight. But the part that did surprise me was how quickly I began to cherish my life as a wife. As Tom's Wife. I wasn't above a patisserie in a French village waxing poetic about Jean-Charles, but I was laughing without a care in the world in the middle of Aisle 5 while you danced your excitement because there was a sale on your favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry's.. And there was nowhere else I would rather have been  because I was with you.

Now here I am seven months into losing you and I can make it some days without crying over the loss of my husband but now I am starting to mourn the death of The Wife in me. It's a part of this process that I couldn't have fathomed at the beginning because I was so focused on never agaon seeing the spark in your eyes or feeling the touch of your hands. I buried the loss of The Wife in me when I buried you and only now is she starting to come out to say, "Don't forget about me. I was lost, too."

Sometimes The Wife wakes me up in the middle of the night to recall the last list we made for our next trip to Home Depot.

She hovers just steps behind me as I walk this house, ready to pick up your socks that you always left in the foyer.

She still checks the DVR to make sure your favorite shows recorded. And then I painstakingly delete each one.

When we first started trying to have a baby, The Wife in me bought a onesie on sale. It was purple and it said Laker Girl, in honor of your favorite team. I remember showing it to you in excitement and at first your adamant protestations that she would in fact be a he but then your wide eyes wonder at staring at the smallness of the garment of clothing as you held it up. "She'll be in the WNBA." And that was that. I found that onesie in the storage room a couple of weeks ago. I folded it up and fully intended to put it in the back for Goodwill but I changed my mind at the last moment. I'm not quite there yet.

The Wife in me still urges to dial your number on the way home from work. Just to say hi. Just to say "I can't wait to see you."

I was good at being a wife. Your wife. I would've followed you anywhere. I don't quite know how to put The Wife to rest. I am starting to move forward and yet, by doing so I have to leave her behind. And I think my biggest fear is that by leaving her behind, I also am starting to leave you behind. How can I put her away and keep you with me? How do I silence her insistent and certain voice while keeping yours in my ears?

Sometimes when I go to my mom's house, I sneak downstairs and look at my wedding dress. I remember picking it out and knowing that it was The One. I think that is when The Wife in me was born. I can picture slipping into it on our wedding day and thinking of the metamorphosis that I was undergoing. I miss her. I miss you. I miss us.

Love,

Amanda

For My Valentine, With Love.

Dear Babe,

I used to think that Valentine’s Day was made up of a measurable formula. Gifts + Dinner + Grand Gestures = Love appropriately demonstrated. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a day for reality or bills or bickering or understatement. It was a day of theatrics and pink and hearts.

You used to tell me that it was all a scam; that every day was Valentine’s Day. You told me the greatest gift you could give me was your last name – our last name. I knew it was true; of course, I’m (usually) not the kind of person that things matter to. Still, every year I couldn’t help but keep my eyes peeled for a surprise bouquet or shiny package or a little velvet jewelry box. I should have known that it was far more important for you to make every day Valentine’s Day.

Now I know the truth. It didn’t take me long. I was always just a bit behind you with the bigger picture.

It was Valentine’s Day every time you called me just to say you couldn’t wait to see me that night.

It was Valentine’s Day every time you held my hand when I was scared.

It was Valentine’s Day every morning when you would kiss my forehead and tell me how beautiful I was.

It was Valentine’s Day when you sat next to me at every single doctor’s appointment. You would make me laugh in between blood draws and tell me how much we would make our kids pay for it.

It was Valentine’s Day every time I saw you with Olivia or Matthew.

It was Valentine’s Day when we spent the first night in our new home, dancing across the floors, the record player the only furniture.

It was even Valentine’s Day on that very last day. To end our love story with an “I love you” and a prayer. And gratitude. That I was yours and you were mine. Through Earth and time and soul.

This year, you won’t be with me in this world, but you will still, and always, be my Valentine.

Love,

Amanda