Forever Hers

I spent forty days and forty nights taking shifts with her family to sit in a candle’s glow after she died. We prayed, we played cards, we laughed, we danced and celebrated the amazing life she lived. But as the days went on, and the grief set in, we wailed, we held each other close and shared the pain of losing someone so young. 

It’s believed that it takes the spirit of a loved one forty days to pass on to the afterlife, but it’s been a year now, and I still see her in everything that I do. I developed every picture we ever took of each other and stared at them for hours. I think I held on to the photos so tightly because the ineffable feeling of losing a spouse at twenty-four was extremely isolating. Most people my age have the good fortune to not understand what I was going through. 

A switch flipped in her the days leading up to her death, she made me stop drinking coffee, and started giving stipulations as to who I could marry after she passed, all with humor and grace. I don’t know if it was denial, or if she was just trying to enjoy this small window of time that we got to be open and genuinely ourselves. But it hurt to watch. Someone so young, singing themselves a lullaby to sleep for eternity. 

“She better be an astronaut.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this right now, baby.” I stepped into the kitchen evasively. 

Unbothered, she rolled her wheelchair towards me. “Or a cook.” 

I remember the smile on my face was uncomfortable. “This is morbid.” I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of laughing at death. But Filipino culture doesn’t believe that death is the end of life. Falling in love with her meant falling in love with her family, and her culture, and nowhere was that culture more present than her funeral and our wedding.

We went to a thrift store and found a dress, a suit, and two rings from the front counter. We called our family, announced the engagement, and had the ceremony a few days later. There was no time to waste. The wedding had all of ten people in attendance. Her mother acted as the sponsor for the Cord, Candle and Veil. Tears were shed, small gifts were given, but primarily we all just wanted to spend the uncertain amount of time left, together. 

I always promised her a well-planned wedding; I never got to deliver on that. We got more notice than most people, but two weeks still wasn’t long, so we focused on getting what family we could together, and what traditions we could keep intact. Because the specialist gave her “two weeks, a month at the most,” and we’d heard this spiel before, but it struck a different chord in the moment - it felt true, the signs were all there, she really hadn’t been doing well. So we looked the absolute shit show ahead of us in the eye and and said “fuck you.”

Before then we had needed the disability checks that came in the mail every second Wednesday of the month, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. We wanted to be able to call each other husband and wife so badly it physically hurt, but she would have lost her benefits, and that would have hurt more. 

I chased a better paying job, got some work being the token trans man for a crappy call center's half-assed diversity campaign. She babysat for cash, working with our neighbors kid that gave us baby fever we could never satisfy. Somewhere along the line, she developed a fascination with disposable cameras. So while we navigated our way through early adulthood, we photographed everything. We were taking up space society told us we couldn’t and we documented every beautiful, ugly, and mundane moment of it.  

One night in particular this old Beatles song came on and we twisted and shouted until we turned in for the night. It was dangerously easy to forget how lonely the world could truly be when she was around. But the illusion persisted for several years. Through doctor visits, and fights with the disability office, we did it together. The definition of “through sickness and health,” we were married for years before we said “I do.” 

The life we created was great, we did what we wanted, when we wanted. So long as the budget approved, and luckily for us, we were both used to entertaining ourselves with little physical stimulus. So nights filled with improvised dancing, and whispers before bed were enough to keep us content.

When we moved into our first apartment, people thought we were crazy. We had a tiny little studio that barely fit our bed, but it had open doorways, elevators, and enough space (after we ditched the idea of having a dinner table) for her to be able to get around when she was home alone. Her family helped us bring in box after box and made me promise to take good care of their little girl. (No matter how many times she reminded them that she was no longer “little.”) We covered the walls in art, draped the mattress with colorful dressings, and sorted our clothes until the room felt like “home.” I can still remember that first night, sleeping with each other's weight in the bed, the comfort that would become mandatory to get a good night's rest, still new. I took a moment to absorb how thankful I was to be in this new phase of my life, the woman of my dreams drifting off to sleep, her hand cupped on my cheek. Her sleepy mind noticed that I was grinning from ear to ear. 

With her eyes still closed she whispered; “What?” 

“I can’t believe we’re doing it.” 

The pillowcase quietly rustled as she nodded her head, a grin of her own growing onto her face. “Yup, and we’re doing it with everything on the bottom shelves...” 

“Oh, you got short jokes now?” We both laughed. “Waited ‘till we were all moved in and comfy?” 

“Yeah.” Her laugh grew louder, I bit my amused lip as her face relaxed in an attempt to quiet back down. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

“Now go to sleep.” 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

She gave a final smile as her thumb gently rubbed up and down my cheek bone. I’ve never been so pleased with the outcome of talking to a stranger. 

I was enjoying my first summer of academic freedom at a local café when I noticed the novelty band stickers she carefully placed on her wheelchair from across the room. I couldn’t help the nauseating first words that escaped my lips. “Warped tour? You had a fun emo-phase in high school.”

She smiled, turning her chair slightly towards me. “I bet you listened to your fair share of... “ She studied my appearance, leather jacket, clunky boots. “Green Day.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah. You clocked the pop-punk vibe way too easily. You know the type too well.” 

“Touché.” I stuck my hand out for a handshake. “Clement.” 

She returns the gesture. “Chesa.” 

I put one hand on the back of a nearby chair. “Do you mind?” 

“Not at all.” 

I pulled the seat closer to her so we could talk, about music, about our jobs, about our recent graduations. She was two years older than me, and shocked to hear I was fresh out of high school, but we listened to each other babble for hours until the waitress passive aggressively delivered our tab. 

We stuck together like glue after that night, always at each other's houses, meeting each other's family, creating a life we felt was worth living. Sharing firsts… and lasts… moments that I couldn’t have had with anyone else. I think a part of my heart will ache until the day I’m able to see her again, but that’s only because a much larger part of my heart will always flutter with the memories we shared. 

Till we meet again, my love. 

Forever yours, Clement