A Perfect Morning

I remember everything about that day.

There are some things I choose not to remember, but some things, like that morning, I will always remember. 

I remember padding down the stairs, holding the banister (you always told me that the stairs were the most dangerous thing in any house) until I got to the bottom and started to waddle (you remember the pregnant-lady waddle, right?) to the kitchen. I turned on the lights and gave light to a new day. You were sleeping - it was early - and I made coffee. I usually waited until later in the day to have my one and only coffee, but I needed it that morning. So I went to the sink and ran the water. It seemed so ordinary, the flowing of the water, how cool it was against my fingers, but I’ll always remember that. How the water sloshed into the machine, the smell of the ground coffee when I scooped it out, how it bit the back of my throat, the burbling sound the water made when I turned the machine on. And as I stood there, waiting for the coffee, the thoughts going through my head were on the future: Were we ready? What would change? How would we cope? (I can’t tell you, Arthur, how ashamed I am of that. How I should have been grateful in that moment for how lucky we were and not fixated on things that were out of my control.) Eventually, the machine beeped and the coffee was ready. I poured it black, wanting to savour the flavour, and sat at the table, watching the steam rise from the cup in gray tendrils. Soon enough, I heard your footsteps on the stairs (the coffee must have lured you downstairs) as you padded down to meet me like you always would: ‘Good mornin’, sunshine,’ you said as you kissed me on the cheek and rubbed my belly. ‘And good mornin’ to you, baby boy.’ You poured your coffee and sat beside me, sensing the storm on my face, (being pregnant wasn’t easy and I tried not to take it out on you) and gave me space. 

That was the moment. If I could paint one thing, if I had the talent to sculpt something that would outlive me and you and Jason and everyone, I would want it to be that moment, because that moment was real love. It’s not the Hollywood moments of love that are real - not arguments that are resolved in a passionate kiss or chasing after someone in the rain. It’s the quiet moments that are written on the soul, on the heart, on time itself. The subtle moments, not of any kind of realisation or awakening, but of just being together. 

At one point, you stood up, checked your watch, and went to the fridge. Ten minutes later (against my toothless rebukes) there was a fried egg (overhard, not runny) on a bagel with melted cheese in front of me. You set it down, bowed and said: ‘Bon appetit, m’lady.’ I laughed - you always had the ability to thaw the ice that would form around me, the flame that lived inside you. I ate and you drank your coffee and smiled. Then you went to get ready for work. 

Back down the stairs and you were whistling something - I think it was ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’. It made sense as it was your last day at work before Christmas. Like every morning, you stood in front of me as you did your tie and said: ‘How do I look?’ and I said, ‘Like a million bucks.’ You kissed me, rubbed my belly and we said goodbye. 

The rest of my day until… well, you know… was uneventful. A pregnant teacher on Christmas holidays who is waiting for her husband to be finished work means a lot of reading, snacking, peeing, reruns of The Office, going for walks that don’t last long because of the peeing, more snacking, napping and reading. You sent me a photo of your lunch: it was a chicken parm from a fancy restaurant that you went to with James because you weren’t going to the Christmas party and wanted to have a drink with him before the baby was born. The caption for the photo was: Puttin’on the Ritz with James! I still look at that photo, Arthur. It makes me think of you and how happy you would have been. I wonder if James does too. (Oh, if you had only gone to that Christmas party. If only you hadn't been, for once in your life, such a good man. If only you had been selfish for once.)

I was getting restless by five PM. You always messaged me when you were on your way home. I wondered if you had caved and gone to the party; that made me angry. Or if you were stuck in traffic. Less angry, more worried. I messaged you: You okay? It’s still unread. What happens to those messages that no one reads? Where do they go? I digress.

By six, I was frantic. I was going to call James until I realised I didn’t have his number. I was going to call your mother until I realised I didn’t want to worry her. You were usually home by six and your phone might have died. There could have been a million reasons why you didn’t message. So I calmed myself and turned on the tv. The second I read the words on the screen I knew - I don’t know how I knew and it doesn’t really matter now. But I just knew. I turned the tv off, as if that might make a difference. If I didn’t see it, maybe it didn’t happen. I sensed him then, you know, inside of me. He was moving. Like he sensed something. But then the phone rang. And it wasn’t your number. And he kicked. I’ll never be able to explain it, the timing of it was just too perfect. I guess coincidences are just like that. But that’s what happened. 

I choose not to remember that phone call. Choose is a weird word to use when talking about memory, isn’t it? We don’t get a choice over what we remember. But I do. I choose not to remember what it said on that tv, the phone call, the feeling afterwards, the funeral, and everything else. I lived through it, so why do I need to remember it? 

I choose not to remember the man who did this to you. It was hard to avoid his face at first. It was a curiosity that was thirsty for knowledge, a face to direct the neverending torrent of anger and pain towards - not to mention that it was all over the news and social media and the overall internet for weeks afterwards. But I can’t think of his face now. I’ve hidden it from where my thoughts live.

But I won’t lie to you, Arthur. I went looking for his face once. It was a few weeks after and I was in bed, not sleeping. Our Jason was sleeping, but I was too hurt to sleep. I always try to think of how to describe what it’s like to people. You know, they offer their condolences, tell me their thoughts and prayers are with me and ask: How am I doing? I guess I could tell them that it feels like I’ve been torn in half, that my soul is split in two, that I’ll never be whole again… But I just say that I’m doing okay. Anyway, that night, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I just needed to see what he looked like, and every other time I had seen his face I had looked away, like a kid seeing a monster in a scary movie. This time, I searched for it and stared at it. And the tears came but they were angry and I wanted to scream at him and then I did scream and Jason woke up and I promised myself I would never do that again. That I would never let anger take me there again. And I haven’t. 

That isn’t to say that I don’t see him against my will. He comes to me in dreams, Arthur. It makes me so angry when I wake up, because I don’t want to see him in my dreams. I wish I could reach into my brain and pull him out, take out the part of myself that is still fixated on him, that subconscious part that just won't forget him. Because I want to see you. But it’s always him. And they aren’t some kind of violent, revenge dreams either - they are always the same. It’s just me and I’m standing there and he walks up to me and we look at each other. His face isn’t there. It’s a hole made up of the kind of static you used to see on old-fashioned tvs. He doesn’t speak and I don’t speak and now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense. That’s how the whole ‘looking for answers’ thing goes, isn’t it? A whole lot of static. 

Any time my mind wants to think of him, or I have just woken up from dreaming of him, I just think of that morning in the kitchen. It’s my wall against him, where it’s just the three of us and he can’t get us. We’re safe there, Arthur. 

The other place I look is Jason. You always knew he would have your eyes. As the months have passed and he has grown, wouldn’t you know it, he also has your nose, and he wrinkles it when he doesn’t like something or is upset. I see you in his eyes, too. Not just resemblance, but I know you are in there. And sometimes Jason looks for you, too. Like you are in the room, standing in a corner and he is just waiting for you to come and pick him up. And he cries, of course, because even he knows something, or someone, is missing. (I think the jury is still out on ghosts, but if you are with us, could you at least do a diaper change once in a while? Ha ha.) 

But he can’t get us in Jason’s eyes, Arthur. That’s where you are. (There are other things there, too. Things I can’t avoid because they are in the future, and they are his firsts, his failures, his love, his loss, his ever-changing and growin existence that you will not get to see but will have helped create and it’s all for you, in your name and your honour. And he will know about you and you will matter to him because he mattered to you and you matter to me.) His eyes. That’s where you live now. Like that e.e. cummings poem, except I don’t carry your heart with me, no, Jason carries your heart. That’s where it lives. In his eyes. That’s where that man can’t get to, no matter how hard he tries. In his eyes. And that morning. That perfect morning, in the kitchen. A quiet kitchen, on a quiet morning. That’s where we’ll always be.