Learning Curve

How do you sum up a life in a few short minutes? How do you total the sum of the love shared, the laughs, the heartaches, in a few short words? The funeral is tomorrow; my husband has been dead for a week. I suppose we aren’t really married anymore, but that hasn’t completely sunk in because I can’t let. I still find myself turning around, hoping to catch sight of Charlie, but then I remember and a new wave of grief hits. Most of the time I walk around the overly crowded house numb, taking in the amount of callers, but barely registering the words they say. My fridge no longer has room left for the numerous casseroles and my mother has started having to turn to friends to hold those that continue to show. There is no way I will ever be able to eat everything, but each day it is served to the guests, so that is helpful.

Charlie wasn’t sick. The words are scrawled at the top of my paper, but everyone who has access to local news coverage knows this. They all know why we won’t be able to have an open casket. He was killed in the line of duty; a traffic stop gone wrong, two bullets ripping through his face and another lodging itself into his thigh. We all knew the dangers of his profession, knew of the rising tension in the world, but still not of us ever thought it could be him. It would never be our Charlie, but here we were, making arrangements, standing vigil as his friends and loved ones, and the entire department showed to pay their respects. I was exhausted by the end of the visitation, held up by his best friend, driven home by my mother. And now, instead of trying to get the sleep I much needed, I was staring at my tear stained notepad, wondering just what I could say about my husband.

Ours was an unconventional type of love. I knew I loved him the minute I saw him; a set up created by his father. He took more time, weighing the decision to ask me out heavily. It was a month before Charlie got the courage, and I rushed my answer. I was always in a rush with our relationship, even going so far as to grab the engagement ring from the box before he had even finished his sentence. No, life together wasn’t always perfect, but it was ours. Now, it was just mine. I couldn’t stop the thoughts reminding me how alone I was now. Who could understand a thirty year old widow? How would I manage to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and assemble them into something usable? I was broken and nothing I said or did would fix that.

A soft rap at my door drew my attention from the sheet to the entrance to my office. Through my tears the person was blurry, but I knew immediately who it was. My mother was the only other person staying with me, the only person I had really managed to let into the grief that had surrounded me. “You should try and get some sleep,” she cooed softly, moving further in. I could only nod, but turned back to the blank legal pad. 

“I’ve been staring at this page for days, trying to piece together something fitting. He was so much more than I can even begin to say.” The words poured from me with the tears, broken only by the gasps as sobs wracked my body. Instantly I felt strong arms around me, pulling me to her as though I was a small child with a bruise she could kiss away. This was one pain no one had answers for. After a few moments she spoke, her words buried in my brunette hair.

“When I lost your dad I never thought I’d be able to manage. You were fifteen and my only concern was for you. So many of your life events center around the father and there was no way I could make up for it. We had talked so much of everything we wanted to do, to see you accomplish. And there were the fears as well. How would I be able to support you by myself? But I want you to know I wasn’t alone. I had support from family and friends alike. The community I had created stepped up. They were the ones who put my pieces back together. And you. I knew I couldn’t totally lose it because I still had you to care for. Honey, nothing about the next few days, weeks, or years will be easy, but you’ll find you have more strength than you know. 

Tomorrow, just speak from your heart. Say what you need to say, what you want people to know about your relationship with Charlie. Whatever you say will be enough.”

Somewhere deep down I knew she was right. Neither of us had spoken at Dad’s funeral, but it was something I had come to regret as I grew older. I felt as though I hadn’t given him the proper goodbye, and I refused to feel the same way this time. But things had also been different for my mother. She had me. She couldn’t just completely shut down. A lot of family friends that had gathered had been through the friendships I had made or PTA boards for the schools I attended. I had no such motivation or ties to the community. Sure, I had the force, but how long before they would move on to the next broken widow? I had a few friends, but I didn’t expect them to be there for me at my lowest. That wasn’t how my generation operated. We all had lives and demands for our time. Besides, they were couples friends. I couldn’t expect them to still want to include me now that I was just me.

My mother’s arms were still on me, holding me close, trying to impart some comfort. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit better, a bit closer to whole, but I knew this feeling wouldn’t last. No matter the amount of hugs or support it never did. The one person I wanted to be able to hold one more time was gone and there was nothing I could do to change that. I was powerless, helpless to the universe. When the crowds faded and people returned back to their daily lives, I would still be here, stuck in my grief. I would still be mourning the loss of the person I had imagined sharing everything with for the rest of my life. The little time we had shared together hadn’t been enough. It couldn’t be enough and there was no way to add to it. 

“I’ll head to bed soon,” I heard myself say, pulling back slightly. I knew I must look a mess, sitting in the dimly lit office still in the grey skirt and black silk shirt, now untucked, my stockinged feet bare on the hardwood floor. My hair, once pulled into a tight bun, had fallen, strands covering my face sporadically. A nod and a kiss and my mother was out the door, leaving me once more. Staring down at the sheet I knew she was right. No matter what I said it would be enough, but that didn’t change my reasoning behind it all. Being able to speak, knowing the words I would say, would put some control back into my life. Without it, I was still helpless and I knew that was the state I was destined to stay for the foreseeable future. There were no shortcuts. Writing down the words wouldn’t change the fact he was gone and that the illusion that I had any control had been broken. That was the reality, and it was one I was going to have to learn to live with.