Beloved Son

Dear M,

It took 7 years for me to gain the courage to look up where you’re buried. The website has a link to your obituary and a picture of your shiny tombstone. “Beloved son” it says. I guess they didn’t want anyone to remember that you were my husband, too.

I found out that you had a gravesite from her picture on social media. I was shocked still her “friend.” She and, well, almost everyone broke ties with me when you died. I shouldn’t have been surprised. You always prided your family and friends on their loyalty, and you were right. I wish you could’ve seen them turn their backs on me! The angry part of you would have been so satisfied! Honestly, you have gone down as someone who did no wrong, and I’m no longer a part of the fam – the literal or figurative fam.

They might have waited until I remarried to bury you. That would make sense – no longer your widow. I’m just glad I had a part in your funeral arrangements, even if just a small part. They asked me to handle the music! I know you would’ve hated the stuffy ass gathering, but your dad paid for it, so your aunts had a lot of input. I made sure to have airplane bottles stocked and available for friends, though.  

The days following your death are a blur. Mostly from shock and emotion, but partly from the alcohol. The “hoodrat three” got back together, and I joked that I was “slightly intoxicated” every time I saw them. I smile while writing that phrase. DUI? I was slightly intoxicated. Fist fight with my boss? I was slightly intoxicated. Banned from a local bar? I was slightly intoxicated. You said that line so often that T-shirts were made. I still have mine.

I got the call in the evening. Your time of death was around 2 PM the day after Christmas. I was next of kin but last to know. I still have so many questions about that day. Since I had removed myself from the lease, nothing about the house had changed except for the addition of a roommate. Your mom still lived downstairs. Did you send her on an errand? How did you know she wouldn’t be the one to find you? Or did you think about that? Did you close the garage door? Did you use the orange extension cord or the white one? How did you know the beam would hold your weight? Which sneakers were you wearing? Who did you talk to last?

You know, I had good reason leave. And we both know that I had good reason to resent you. And you – I don’t know if what you felt towards me has a name. We couldn’t be married anymore. It was too dangerous. But I wasn’t willing to lose you completely. I didn’t want the full album, I wanted to sample the “good parts” for the re-release: Me, Remastered. That was selfish of me, and I’m sorry. I’ll never know if you’re sorry for anything. I choose to believe that you are because you can’t tell me differently!

I have so many things to tell you. Jojo died two years ago. We buried her on our farm. I thought about you a lot that day. I thought about finding her downtown. You sprained your ankle that night – slightly intoxicated. I thought about my old roommate who hated you and asked me why our puppy looked sad all the time. About that Fourth of July, when my neighbor threw two smoke bombs into the parade of fireworks spectators passing by our front porch, and Jojo got lost in the cloud and followed a couple to their car. She was a good girl, and I never would have become a dog mom that night if not for you. I have four dogs now – four! It’s beautiful chaos and you would love it.  

The baby we hosted a shower for at our house on Bart Street is nine years old now! Her mom and I are still best friends, and she visits us regularly with her daughter, who confides in and looks up to my stepdaughter. It’s really sweet. I wish you could have met her.

There are so many more things to tell you! The friend I made being a bridesmaid – you remember – she left her corporate job to start her own business as a medium. No joke! She told me that she talked to you! She says and believes she’s psychic. Not only that, but she captures sounds on a spirit box and uses those sounds as samples. Then mixes them in with stock beats from an app or something and calls herself a producer. I’m like, you know I was married to an award-winning music producer, right? I wish she could talk to you. You could tell her she’s not a producer and go back to working a real job!

So many things remind me of you. The Goodyear blimp turned 100 years old this year, for example. My cousin still has the dog we fostered, Troy. And she never changed his name. I want to know what you think about new hip-hop. Would you like Kendrick Lamar? When I listen to Bob Dylan, I can’t help but compare his voice to the sound of a chainsaw starting. Bill Curtis is still my voice crush. So many songs.

You never believed in an afterlife. I’m still trying to figure out what I believe. I always loved what your mom said: “I don’t think I’m smart enough to say one way or another.” In the event that nothing happens after we die, it just goes black, and we become “worm food,” as you put it, I hope your last thought was pleasant. I hope the memories of love and music and friends and dogs and family flooded the darkness of your depression just before the lights went out. I have to believe it.

Love,

Pea