Go It Alone

   The house is quiet. All the children have gone back to their homes. My son and his family were the last ones to leave the house. He would have been the first, but his wife was convinced I was going to keel over and die or at least try to force myself to keel over and die, so they stayed an extra two days. Like those two days would have made a difference, but it made them feel like they were doing something, so I didn’t say anything.

    I miss their noise, but not enough to wish they were here again. The grandkids all competing for my attention and affection was nice for a time. The kids laughed, played, and fought over which one I loved the most. I didn’t realize how much Harold helped to distract and entertain the grands until he wasn’t there to do it anymore. He was crazy about those kids. He rolled around on the floor and wrestle them, listen to their stories and make things for them.

   From what I remember of it, the funeral was nice. The church was a blur of funeral flowers and Christmas decorations. Our friends and family took the time out of their hectic holiday schedules to pay their respects. Even his favorite niece, whom he had not seen in six years, traveled the farthest away to say goodbye. A flurry of handshakes, hugs, and whispers of condolences is all I can recall. I am appreciative of them all, even if I was sort of out of it at the time.

    His casket was a stoic navy blue, the inside resembling a white, padded bed. Too bad he didn’t look like he was sleeping. He just looked dead. When his mother died just two years ago, she looked like she was sleeping. My aunt looked the same; finally entering her peaceful, eternal rest. Harold just looked like a wax version of himself, propped and positioned for us to see him one last time. The last image I carry of my husband is him looking dead in his coffin.

    A week before Christmas we laid him to rest. The rain poured mercilessly on us. Our youngest grandchildren waited in the car while he was interred.

    I remember the crying and tissues being passed around. And the overpoweringly sweet smell of all the funeral flowers. I don’t want flowers at my funeral. There were enough flowers at Harold’s funeral for two funerals. I don’t want a funeral at all, but then again, funerals aren’t for the dead. My children have made it clear I am to have one.

    The kids are worried about me. I left Harold's gifts under the tree. There weren’t many, to begin with. He got an ugly Christmas sweater, an even uglier holiday tie, Airpods because they came highly recommended by his oldest grandchild, a John Grisham novel, and the Invictus watch he'd been eyeing for months. I wanted him to have his gifts before Christmas, while he was alive and in the hospital. He convinced me he would be home to open his presents. I should have listened to the doctors.

     “Grandma Carol, Grandpa Harold's gifts are still under the tree. He can’t open them cause he's dead!” said my youngest grandson, five-year-old Captain Obvious, a.k.a Christopher Jr. His mother's eyes widened as she looked at me and she shushed the Captain.

    “You are most certainly right. I'll do something with them once I take down all the Christmas decorations,” I said.

    “Are you gonna give him his gifts even though he's dead?” His mother cringed again. She needn’t be uptight. We all know he’s dead. I’m glad someone wanted to talk about him.

    “No. He can’t use them where he is now. What do you think I should do with them?” The Captain looked up to the ceiling.

    “I think you should give ‘em to the men at your church. The ones whose wives didn’t get them nothing for Christmas,” he said.

    Chris Sr. and the rest of the family laughed. Grace just shook her head and pulled her precocious son closer to her.

    Christmas was as happy as it could be. There were moments of sadness, but there was too much going on and too many people around to let those sad times last for long. We told stories, many featuring Harold and his antics during the holidays.

    Now it’s New Year’s Eve. The first New Year’s Eve without Harold. It was always just the two of us. Well, not in the beginning. When we first got married, his best friend and his wife rang the new year in with us. Kids and then a divorce stopped the Jones’ from coming over on New Year’s Eve.

    I liked it better when it was just Harold and me. Last year, we decided to venture out. A former colleague of mine was having a huge party at a hotel downtown. I didn’t want to go, but Harold did.

    “We never go out. It’ll be fun. If it gets to be too much, we’ll just leave,” he had said. He didn’t have to pull my arm. We stayed well after midnight and promised to come back to ring in the next year.

    She did extend an invitation this year.

    “Maybe next year,” I said.

    “I understand. Call me if you need anything,” she said before we ended the call. Since Harold died, a lot of people have told me to call them if I need anything. I know they mean well. I’ve said the same thing when someone has lost a loved one. I meant well. I just didn’t know what else to say.

    I’ve called no one. The calls reaching out to me have all but stopped. I’m OK with that. I never liked being a burden in any way to anyone, though I’m sure it seemed like a burden to my kids when I repeatedly declined their invitations to spend New Year’s Eve with them. They were insistent and persistent. I know they mean well, but I wanted to be alone. I’m going into the new year without my husband. It’s important for me to go it alone.

    “Mom, you should come over tonight. The kids would love to see you sooner rather than later,” Beth Ann said.

    “Maybe next year,” I said.

    “Mom, there may not be,” she said and then stopped.

    “I know and if that’s the case, that will be all right. I want to spend this holiday alone. I don’t want to celebrate this year.” I said. I sounded like a skipping CD. I said this same thing to my son a few hours before talking to Beth Ann.

    Beth Ann sighed.

    “I hate to think you are alone in that house,” she said.

    “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you next year,” I said.

    She sighed again. “All right, Mom. Happy New Year,” she said.

    “Same to you kiddo,” I said.