A Missing Ingredient

I’ve always liked the rain. The smell and sound have always been comforting, but I also enjoy the fact that the world seems to shut down when it rains. Like the volume was turned down and the world became quiet.  One minute, the sun’s out and people are outside. Children are playing, businessmen are rushing to and from meetings and coffee shops, and the next minute it all stops. The children run inside for cartoons and hot chocolate, and the businessmen have all settled in with a latte and a scone. Quiet. I like that. These were my thoughts as I stood over my wife’s grave with the expensive black umbrella she had bought me for Christmas just a few months earlier. I could see the water droplets sliding down the stone, getting caught in the divots of the letters. 

I have visited my wife every single day since she died. 5 months. In the beginning, I kept wishing that she would come back. That she would pop out from behind the grave with her bright, room-filling smile and reveal that it was all one big prank. A joke. But it’s not a joke. She was alive, then she died. That’s it. No miracles, no smiles. She’s dead. I realize now that no matter how hard I try, she isn’t coming back to me. Even after that realization, I still visit her day after day. Not to fantasize anymore, but because the thought of my wife waiting for me all day only to realize that I didn’t come was simply too hard. Some days are harder, and I stay for longer, crying to myself. On the better days, though, I don’t cry. Quite the opposite, actually. It took me about two months, but I’m at the point where I am able to be here with my wife and smile. Laugh, sometimes, as I share funny or embarrassing moments from our marriage.

Today is one of the good days. I sat with my wife for half an hour, sharing the memory of our first anniversary. We went on a Disney cruise in the Bahamas, which had been my wife’s dream ever since she was a child. Being the one to let her experience this dream felt very special. We spent that cruise playing on water slides and eating ice cream- like we were children again. The entire time felt like a movie.  She knew how to let her inner child shine- something that, on our first date, she told me I had to learn if I wanted to be with her. That cruise was just about 50 years ago, but it still feels like yesterday when we departed.

I left the cemetery, feeling slightly better than I did when I walked in. I got into the family car that we had bought together and drove off, parking at my favorite cafe. Well, my wife’s favorite. We often went there together, and it was always her idea. Anyways, I walked in and ordered the same thing I always did. A black coffee with a chocolate chip muffin. I used to always like blueberry muffins, but then my wife got me to try a chocolate chip one at this very cafe. I loved it. I haven’t gotten a blueberry one since. 

As I ate my muffin and drank my coffee, I saw a young couple with a daughter who was probably around 2 years old. The woman had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, and the man had short, black hair and glasses. It was almost uncanny- they looked just like my wife and me when we were young. The child saw me looking at her family, so she smiled and yelled-

“Hi, mister!” from across the room. I smiled and waved, then looked away from them. The rain was still falling, but it was dying down. The droplets were dripping very slowly down the window of the cafe, landing on the windowsill. As I was looking outside, I saw a young man. He was probably 19 or 20, and he was carrying a bouquet of beautiful red roses. He placed the flowers into his car, then turned and got in himself. As soon as I could see his face, I saw the bright, ear-to-ear smile that he was wearing. I wondered if somebody saw me the first time that I bought flowers for my wife.

I have had the same routine every day since she died. Wake up, visit her grave, have a muffin and coffee, go home, and watch the television until I fall asleep. Even though I have carried out this routine for 5 months straight, I don’t like it. Every single day with my wife was like an adventure. She would wake me up in the early morning and let me know that we were going on a 3-day camping trip in the mountains, or that she booked us tickets to a concert. Whatever it was, she focused her life on experiences. I swear, she couldn’t sit at home for more than a few minutes before complaining about boredom.

 I have always considered myself adventurous. I have always thought that I was like my wife, but since she died I realize that I'm simply not. I can't wake up and just book a plane ticket to who-knows-where. I can’t stray too far from my usual routine without feeling like I’m lost or like I’m doing something wrong. I’m boring, and I don’t want to be. I want to get out and do things, but honestly, I don’t know how. 

I left the cafe and headed home. The entire ride, I was picturing my wife sitting next to me and telling me to do something with my life. Her voice in my head was so loud, and I tried to tune it out but I knew she was right. I can’t just give up and live the rest of my life without really living. I needed something more- like a missing ingredient. 

I never returned home that day. Instead, I stood at the edge of a road. The rain had stopped by this point- The world wasn’t quiet anymore, and that was okay. I was staring down a path that I hadn’t ever walked. Maybe it was time to find out where it led.