Nostalgic Magnolia

It's October 17th and today is Hassan's big 3-0. I can hear him pulling his truck into the driveway and our windows rattling from his speakers blasting music to full capacity. I always tell him, "Stop blasting that music. We live in a good neighborhood now, you're going to scare the neighbors!!" He'd laugh, walk over to me, wrap his arms around my waist, kiss me on the cheek and say, "I'm sorry, my love."

Ugh! I hate when he says that. "My love." I hate when he says it because he knows he can say it to get out of everything. He will say it and instantly I forget what I was irritated about. You see, my husband has a way with words. The way he speaks, it's as if he created the English language himself. I could listen to him talk for hours and sometimes I do. I listen to him talk about his day, about his favorite team, his mama and I never get sick of it. I love the way he says certain words, I love the way he says my name, Rosalie. It's strange because I've obviously heard my name spoken before; in classrooms the teacher would say, "Rosalie Harper?" I'd respond, "Present!" And when I was in trouble, my mother would call out to me, "ROSALIE ANN HARPER!" But the way Hassan says it...it's as if it were crafted.

We make big deals about birthdays...well...I make a big deal about birthdays. Out of the 5 we've spent together, I've always made Hassan his favorite; lasagna, garlic bread and my infamous strawberry poundcake. Sometimes I have to make 2 pound cakes because this man is so greedy, he'd eat an entire loaf by himself. And when he does, I just stare at him and smile. I stare and smile because I can't imagine how I could've gotten so lucky. I have someone in my life who is genuine, who loves me, who worships the ground that I walk on. Sometimes I have to ask myself, "Is he real? Did I create him from my own imagination?" Because there is no way, there is someone out there who is that perfect, no way.

I went to the oven to take out the lasagna. I forgot that my oven mitt had a tiny hole in the palm, so when the pan hit the floor, the lasagna went along with it. Great! This dinner was supposed to be perfect and now it's on the floor. I rush to find something to clean it up with. It's already almost 5 and now dinner is ruined. OK, OK, I will not panic. I think I have leftovers in the fridge from last night...but this was supposed to be special. Leftovers aren't special. I know Hassan wouldn't care, but I do. He doesn't do celebrations like I do. I remember when he got his wisdom tooth pulled, I made a cake in the shape of a wisdom tooth for him. He wasn't able to enjoy it...hence having had major oral surgery. But when he looked back on the pictures of him high as a kite from those premium dental meds, sitting next to a cake that looked like a tooth, he couldn't help but laugh.

I can hear my phone ringing from a distance. I forgot I left it upstairs, I quickly finish cleaning the kitchen floor and I run upstairs to see who's call I missed. It was my mother. I called her back to see what she had wanted. The woman refuses to leave a voicemail, I don't know why. Maybe it's because she knows I'm her daughter and I'll call her back no matter what. I dialed her number and she said, "What are you up to?" I said, "Just making Hassan's birthday dinner." She said, "Are you making the same thing as you always do?" I said, "Mom, you know I am. When have I ever made anything different?" She paused and said, "well, I thought this year would be different." I don't know why she thought it would be any different, I make the same thing on this day every year. Sometimes I hate talking to my mom because she's extremely judgmental. She thinks that she's being helpful, but she isn't. She thinks that she's giving advice, but it's really criticism, wrapped in sarcasm. I always imagined my mom was like those sitcom moms. Those moms who are baking cookies in the kitchen when their kids come home from school. That's the kind of mom I'd want to be. I want to be that mom who goes to all of the school events, who is screaming at the top of her lungs at every sporting event. Who is cuddled up with her little monster in their bed because they had a nightmare.

Hassan and I talked about kids in the beginning. It was something that I wanted and he didn't. It wasn't that he didn't like kids, he was great with our nieces and nephews, he just didn't have a desire for it. I'd watch him play hide and seek with the kids and I'd light up. I knew he'd be a great father, even if he didn't think he would. Hassan was anti-fatherhood because of his father. It doesn't make any sense, but when you survive a childhood like he did, you kinda understand it. He came from a home that was battered. I don't know how he made it out of there, but I'm thankful he did. His father was an alcoholic who was not only abusive to his wife but to his children as well. His mother attempted to leave him on many occasions, but somehow always ended right back with him. Even if it was dangerous for her and her children. Hassan wasn't a drinker and he wouldn't hurt a fly, but experiencing the life that he did, I can't blame him for feeling the way he felt about fatherhood. So we compromised and got Sasha, our huge, lovable chocolate lab. She's a daddy's girl, always following Hassan wherever he goes. Her tail wagging a thousand flaps per hour because she too can hear when his truck is pulling into the driveway.

Except this time, Hassan isn't going to be pulling into the driveway. The last time his driveway pulled into the driveway was January 2nd. He came home, I yelled at him for having his music up too loud, he laughed, wrapped his arms around my waist, kissed me on the cheek and said, "I'm sorry, my love." I told him to go wash up for dinner. He said, "OK, I'll be right back." He began to undo his tie, and he started walking upstairs. I pulled a positive pregnancy test out of my apron pocket, tonight was the night I was going to tell him, "WE'RE PREGNANT!" I knew it would be a shock, but this man loves me and he would love this child, this is going to be a new chapter for us. Then I heard a thud. I called his name and I didn't receive a response. I thought he was playing around, so I laughed and said, "Alright, stop playing. Finish washing up so we can have dinner!" No response. I walked upstairs, I saw him laying in the doorway of our bedroom, he wasn't moving. I quickly called 911, everything was moving so fast, paramedics and the fire department arrived. I couldn't keep up. I kept calling his name, "HASSAN, BABY...HASSAN, BABY PLEASE SAY SOMETHING. BABY PLEASE, OPEN YOUR EYES. BABY, BABY!" I called him. I wouldn't stop calling him and he never opened his eyes.

29 year olds don't drop dead from heart attacks. 29 year olds don't walk into their homes, kiss their wives, preparing to eat dinner and die. That doesn't happen, I refuse to believe that happened to us. Why did this happen to us? Why Hassan? Why him? Why didn't we have more time? I need more time. I need him to say my name one more time.

September 5th, Daisy was born. I remember holding her for the first time and all I saw was Hassan. It was as if a small piece of him had came back to me. I never wanted to let her go. Time with Daisy has gone so fast, she's already over a month now, and changes so much every day. I wish Hassan was here to see her, but I know he's watching over her. I walked into Daisy's room and she was still napping. I knew it was time to wake her up so she could eat. As I awoke her, she grew fussy and began crying. I held her close to me and I said, "I'm sorry, My love." I sat with her in the rocking chair that was near her crib. She was still fussy, not pleased with being pulled from her nap. I rocked with her slowly in the chair and I accidentally bumped the table that was next to us and a picture fell. It was a photo I put there of Hassan and I after our wedding. There were sparklers in the picture, he had the biggest smile on his face and I was too busy staring in awe at him as usual. I felt like it was a beautiful moment to display in our daughter's room. I looked at the photo while it was on the floor, I looked at Daisy and I said, "Let me tell you a story about Hassan and Rosalie..."