I never miss you, except at Christmastime. I’m scared to open the box of ornaments, but once it’s open I realize I moved things last year and the ones that trigger me aren’t in this box anymore. I wonder where they are, the star wars one that I had carved to look like the Death Star with our names on it, the Care Bear you made fun of me for keeping. It’s only the sparkly balls and the dinosaur ones the kids like, the ones that hurt my feelings aren’t here. I wonder if I threw them away. Last year feels blank, the memory files are missing. I can’t remember last Christmas, so it’s unexpected when the mistletoe brings me to tears. You bought it for me three years ago. I had always wanted one but couldn’t find the right sort, I still don’t know where you found it. I think about hanging it up, but remember there’s no one here to kiss me. I miss the Christmas kisses. I miss being touched.
I never miss you, except on new years eve when I wake up to snow and don’t know where the shovel is. You loved shoveling, you took such pride in doing our sidewalk immediately in the morning, shoveling out a path for the dog through the garden, doing the walk for the elderly neighbors on the corner. You did it with such exuberance, and now I scarcely can bring myself to make a route from the back door to the garage. Shoveling is and always has been annoying, I miss not having to worry about it, knowing that you’d get it done before dawn and greet me with hot coffee when I finally roll my ass out of bed.
I never miss you but I’m buying a house and I need your help. I want you to hang shelves for me, to build a wall in the basement and hang sheetrock and pull the electrical. To rewire the lights so they’re switches instead of pull chains. I’m annoyed that you’re not here, that I have to do it myself, or figure out who I can hire. I regret never paying attention when you were building our house, I would sit near you and knit, hold a piece of wood every now and again but the construction was your business. You loved when I’d take the kids and leave for the weekend and you’d punch a hole in a wall for a window or replace the back door, or paint the entire main floor. You loved working on projects and making the house perfect. You loved building a magical, cozy house for me. Now I have to build one for myself and I don’t know how to talk to the contractor. “Can you just put a light here?” is met with a scowl. I bite my lip and don’t say “my husband could have done it” because that’s ridiculous. I’m only here buying this house because you’re gone, because I’m alone, because last year I sold the house you built for us after you took your life in the shed. The shed you built. Nova helped you lay the gravel foundation. I remember the picture of you both on the roof, smiling after finishing the shingles.
I never miss you except when I’m sitting on the floor, looking at the records that are left. I decided in the summer I didn’t want a single one, I was going to be RECORD FREE, I no longer want to be surrounded by vinyl reminders of a life I used to live, the one that you crafted for us. The one we built together. I have spent months driving to the Fetus with paper grocery bags full of LPs and exchanging them for a check, the money has been nice and the crying minimal. I slowly bid goodbye to Tom Petty (yes I sold the Mudcrutch and Wildflowers), Dylan (yes I sold New Morning) and all of the Dr. John. I have debates with you in my head, your voice is still so loud inside my skull. I apologize, this is all so much harder than I thought it was going to be. I finish selling the classic rock and then stop, I can’t bring myself to package up the punk rock or the jazz. You had every Coltrane record, Miles Davis, and Monk. They are all still on my bedroom floor. It feels like I’m being torn in half, I take a break for the holidays and then end up buying Gus a turntable and now he sits on the floor with me, looking at what I haven’t sold yet. All that is left is your favorite things. Superchunk is here, Lambchop. Gus asks if he can have the Fugazi albums and I feel so sad. You loved Fugazi. You should be here to tell him that. I didn’t realize I winnowed it down to only the things that you loved, they’re the hardest to part with. Handing the records over to the boy that looks at me with your blue eyes is harrowing. I hope that he can find his way to you through the music that you loved. I tell him which songs you said were your favorites.
I never miss you except when I want to yell at you. I want to hear you apologize for this. I want you to acknowledge that you hurt me, that you hurt us, that it’s your fault that we’re here. I want to hear you say that you’re mentally ill but also an asshole, a narcissist, a manipulator, a cheater, a liar. I want you to acknowledge the burden, to tell me that I was right - that you were mean to me. Because it’s only in your absence that I can see how hurt you were, how much you hurt everyone around you because you hated yourself, how deep and dark and painful were the places you would retreat to inside yourself. I remember how you lashed out at me and how I didn’t even flinch. I held you and loved you and begged you to stop hurting me. Only now, in the year of your absence, have I learned that I shouldn’t have to beg someone to be nice to me.
I never miss you, except when I do. I’m writing about you but I’m writing about me. Writing about you is writing about me. Writing about the life we had together, the way you were, the way we were. The words pour out of me and I begin to lose track of the person you really were, I wonder if any of this was real.
Reading my words, I’m shocked at myself. Why did I stay? Why did I believe this relationship was good for me? Why did I think I could save you? Why didn’t you try to save yourself?
Keep writing girl you are healing through it.
Oh, sweet Gus and Fugazi - that got me ❤️🩹