Saturday, October 22 

My husband has been gone for three weeks.

Three weeks ago today, my husband died.  

My husband has been dead for three weeks.

 

How difficult it is to write that last line. There is something about the word “dead” that is so final, so devastating. He is gone sounds softer, gentler. Indeed “gone” reflects my emotions more than the other word. You see? I cannot write it more than necessary. It doesn’t change the facts. He’s not coming back. But it eases the psychological burden. My psyche expects him back. My psyche feels him in bed beside me when I roll over in the night. I feel a certain impatience that he’s still gone. The space beside me yawns in expectation of his return. I wait to tell him things: the construction fence is down on the burned house on our walking route. He would be interested; he’d speculate. Further down the street, the “Beethoven” house still looks as derelict as ever. The construction fence is still up and the window at back is still broken. It’s not clear what they will do with it. I want to discuss with him the minutiae of life in our neighborhood, life in our family, programs on television (but not politics).

For instance, the other night I watched Rick Steves’ program about the evolution of art in Europe. For the intro to the show, Rick is standing in front of the Milan cathedral. We were there! We rode the elevator to the top to wander among the carvings that workmen had crafted even though no one could see them from the street far below. Nooks and crannies revealed gargoyles and saints, arches and crenellations, all intricately carved.

And then I remember the unfinished painting Ren left by his office door of one such statue and gargoyle that he wanted to reconstruct in oils. And I feel the sting of his absence once more. No. Sting is too mild. It is more like a gut punch, a reminder that our duet is now a solo. No longer will we laugh together, gossip, plan, travel, smile across the room, read side by side, eat side by side, ride side by side, walk side by side, sleep side by side. Now I journey alone.

One thing I was wondering. Why did those long-ago artists produce such intricate carvings on the top of the Milan cathedral? If no one could see their work, why did they work so hard? If not for earthly rewards, was it for the glory of God? Was their faith so steadfast that they had confidence God would see and approve? There is something to be said for that. I wonder if people today had more faith in an unseen being who kept watch over them, would we see less crime, more generosity towards others. Would the dark, hateful, and often racist comments uttered behind closed doors cease? 

If we thought we were being watched, would we all hold ourselves to a higher standard? No doubt. In this day and age of electronics and cameras, we are all being watched and listened to anyway, and it behooves us to adhere to our better selves. If we did, perhaps the world would experience less turmoil. 

Perhaps not. Like Ren, I am a bit of a skeptic. Like Ren was, that is. 

There is it again. The sucker punch that reminds me he is gone.