Death of an ex-love and a dear friend.
February 18, 2025
{I didn’t know what to title this; the man who I am speaking about was one of the first men I fell in love with; knee knocking, short of breath, the- I can’t believe that guy wearing the blazer, the fisherman’s cap, just tilted, and the gloves without fingers was walking towards me AND smiling- kind of love. But that was a million years ago, and our relationship as friends lasted about twenty five years longer than our entanglement.}
On Valentine’s morning, my husband drove to the airport; I was flying home to NJ to attend the funeral of someone I love.
Being in love while being on drugs makes for sad stories, TJ and I were not a couple you’d choose as godparents. Our relationship didn’t start that way, I have as many sweet memories as funny ones, as ones of heartbreak. I will save these for another time.
About thirty years ago, he got clean, joined the program, had a baby girl, who is now a young woman named Molly.
I called him when I was scared of a path my son Colin was on; I called him when I was struggling in my marriage. He called me to tell stories about his daughter and brag about his dogs. He called me when his ex, the mother of his daughter, tried to steal custody. We leaned on each other, laughed a lot, and always picked up each other’s calls. After the kids grew up, we’d swap dog photos and talk about upcoming concerts or shows. He told me what bands to listen to, told me all about the bands I was already listening to, he knew music, TJ knew music.
The week before he died, he texted that he’d been put on the transplant list.
I got word on Facebook messenger, his new lung didn’t get there in time. I texted him just after, wrote the words “say it isn’t so.”
The memorial service was held a month later, on February 15th. The church was standing room only. Friends and family got up and told stories, it lasted over an hour.
I was a little disappointed to discover I wasn’t the only one he ended calls with “I love you, bye.”
Afterwards, I saw his sisters and hugged them long enough we made up for lost time. I met his daughter, and wished I had the words she needed to stop her crying, but no one did, or will, for a while, I’d imagine.
When everything was over, I spent time with Norma, his wife. We went outside and compared notes about this man that I loved and the man she still loves, and I put my number in her phone. She stole my heart when she told me how he’d always loved me and he’d always felt as if he’d never truly made amends for the ugly moments towards the end.
He’d apologized a thousand times, over the years. On the phone. Over text.
And he never needed to apologize for a damned thing. We were two kids who loved each other who didn’t have a clue how to be in the world and were grabbing on to anything and everyone for help. He felt the pull of the pipe at the end, I drank vodka gimlets and Jamieson’s until I’d pass out.
He had nothing to apologize for. I am a better, stronger, woman for knowing him, and lord knows, I have much better taste in music than most, mostly, but not entirely, thanks to him. (He would like that.)
I will miss him all my days, and take this opportunity to say the last words this time-
“I love you, TJ, bye.”
Dog Walk on a Cold Night and the Bliss of Home.
February 18, 2025
It’s over thirty degrees tonight. I clipped the leashes on Bernadette and Jack and took them out walking after work.
It was still a little bit light. Everything is still covered in snow, patches of ice shine on the sidewalks.
We were able to take our time, as it grew dark, we kept walking.
We saw no one outside but when I peered into windows, I spotted people sitting down to dinner, or in front of the news, living rooms with coffee tables with nothing on them, and dining rooms set with plates and glasses. I couldn’t imagine anyone every throwing a temper tantrum or spilling a glass of red wine in any of these tiny, warm worlds I was spying on, as I slid down the street, two dogs, pulling, nose cold, my breath, white and transparent. But maybe that was because I only peeked into the houses with the curtains open, shades pulled.
I thought of home, with the coupons on the table, the leashes on the floor, the pile of laundry, nest of stray socks and the dusty can of tomato soup in the back of the cupboard.
We kept walking, until my fingers grew stiff, and I saw Bernie shiver under her coat.
When I walked in the door, a wall of warmth hit me from the pellet stove, and Katy’s music was playing a little too loud.
Katy was sprawled on the sofa with Casey, looking at photos from their trip to Cuba and to Chanel, curled up at the end of the sofa, gazing at Kate. There were dishes in the sink, but she’d put away groceries and wiped down the counters.
If someone looked inside at me, from outside our house, through the big picture window, they’d see a woman on a computer, at a table, with a half-eaten bowl of yogurt and blueberries next to her. They would probably see me turn and talk to Katy, or call one of the dogs over, because life is better with a dog near your slippers, as long as those slippers are not in their mouth.
They would see me, home from a walk, and happy to be here.
Thoughts on my marriage.
February 18, 2025
Sheldon’s working tonight; I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off for work at 745 this morning.
A few minutes ago, I went downstairs to our bedroom to check on Michael the cat and find some slippers.
He’d made the bed before he left; he filled up the humidifier and it looks like he attempted to do something about the nightmare of socks on the laundry table.
When he makes the bed, the blankets are even on both sides. The pillows are fluffed, the comforter is neatly folded at the end.
All the stray glasses are gone from the nightstand, my eyeglasses have been placed high on the dresser. (Jack ate my glasses a year ago, Shel still hasn’t recovered, and the replacement pair is very fancy.)
Our conversations revolve around how much he slept, (never enough, I remind him he should stop watching war movies at 2 am and the impact on his lifespan, only getting five hours of sleep,) the dogs- how long they walked, if Chanel lost her sweater, if they ate their breakfast. If it’s too cold for the dogs, or too warm.
We talk about our kids, a little. When Kate’s home, more so, but pretty much based on the dishes in the sink or her current demeanor, we smugly agree on how lovely she is or how long it will be until she recognizes that she is too old not to least soak her egg pan.
About Colin, we worry about his mood, we compare notes on how he looked on Facetime. Colin worries us both, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do, but we call him a lot and I send him pictures of Chanel.
Sheldon worries about me, when he’s working, what I’ll have for dinner, how I’ll manage the dogs by myself when it’s icy.
He never needs to ask me how much I slept, I’m always asleep long before him, and if I can’t sleep, I will share that. Repeatedly. I do not do well on less than eight hours.
It doesn’t sound like a lot.
We worry about each other; we listen to each other. (I’ve stopped doing wordle in the car on the way to work. It was hard to give up, but marriage is sacrifice.)
We’ve heard almost all of the stories, and we don’t like the same shows.
But my husband made the bed for this morning, because he knew that tonight, it would make me happy.
So, we’re good.
If you know him, maybe you could mention he should get more sleep.
julierichmond 