I met and married a wonderful man. I married him for what I understood to be the right reasons for both of us. And all those hopes and expectations, I feel, are being fulfilled. I am a happy wife with no regrets. While I cannnot speak for my husband's innermost thoughts, at least outwardly, I believe he is happy. I feel joy upon his arrival, and sadness when he leaves, dislike the shortest of separations because his sweet hand is away from mine, love and long for his touch, flutter at the expressions from his blue eyes, and lose myself in his smile. When he is gone for long periods of time, I hold his pillow close to my face and breathe in the scent of his sleepy head. Yes, I do love him. I have found nothing to criticize, nothing that irritates, and never once has he been thoughtless or less than caring. He has never given me a moment's pain or doubt.
I am writing this in our kitchen. I am looking out the patio door, and almost on cue, a male cardinal has perched on the deck railing; the wind ruffles his feathered crest. There is a pie safe to my right, an old hoosier cabinet that has been called back into service not only to function, but to add a country charm to the warm maple wood of the cabinets and trim. David planned and installed every single piece of hardware, so everything in the heart of our home has a purpose, is utilitarian, but is also beautiful in its simplicity and simple elegance. When I walked into this place for the first time, I loved it. It felt like home. It had a flow, like a gentle, refreshing breeze on the last warm day of May.
But David did not execute perfection on his own. His wife of 45 years, Janice, was part of all he did.
Janice died of a vicious cancer in October, and I met David in the bleak Novermber.We both were looking for a surcease of sorrow, I from the devastation of divorce, and he for his lost Janice, his childhood nemesis, his high school love, The first and only one he ever cradled in his arms,the woman who carried and bore and raised his children, the one he came home to every day, experienced life with, argued with, forgave, asked forgiveness from, built and let go a family to the world, welcomed grandchildren with, received a death sentence with, and finally, kissed a last goodbye. Even now, Janice is the one David thinks of first when he uses the pronouns "we" and "our;" the one I respectfully do not notice. Janice died in the family room of my new home with her family gathered round. She smiled as she began her travels into the next world, and left her family with a beautiful, sad memory to close her much loved life. The imperfections that were Janice are fading, and what remains is love. That is all any of us can hope for.
There is no pretty transition for my entry into this world. I arrived like a goofy, drooling, tail-wagging, huffing, panting Labrador Retreiver. I wanted to love everyone. I brought new energy, optimism, no doubt comedy, all my past experiences, and all of my ignorance loudly and probably dramatically into the picture, and hoped, simply and with great fervor, that everyone would like me. "Please, sweet Jesus, just pat my head," my heart cried out! My arrival must have been like looking at a quiet Christmas manger scene, with the only sound the gentle lowing of sleepy cows, and dropping Walmart on the day after 21st Century Christmas over the top of it. Why did David do it? Good grief! It is no irony that David got me a Labrador Retreiver so I would not be lonely here. Really.
There are physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional reasons that I believe compelled me to be with David. I can't answer why David's grieving process worked the way it did. I do wonder that if I died today, one month later would he be dating the woman who would take my place? Would she like my dog? But what I can talk about is why there have been only hiccups in this transition. I know in my heart and in my head that I cannot, and do not desire to take the place of Janice Kost.
The first day I arrived with a box of my kitchen things, I opened a cabinet to find that Janice's kitchen was immaculately conceived and executed. There were neat, handwritten stickey labels on every compartment in every drawer and cabinet. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. If for one instant I saw myself as a mighty oak coming into my relationship, this felled me instantly and completely. I looked in drawer after drawer, cabinet after cabinet, awed that all was the same: ordered, meticulous. There were two pitchers in the Hoosier pie safe, a brown one, and a clear one, and Janice's handwriting tersely indicating that the brown pitcher was for iced tea, and under no circumstances should anyone try to put anything but water in the clear pitcher because (duh) it would stain the sides. I felt slapped. In my own kitchern, I was lucky to FIND a pitcher since not a single one of my three children ever unloaded dishes and put them where the dishes belonged. I put the pitchers carefully back into the cabinet, my face a hot red, believing that message was specially directed at me, because I certainly would have messed up the clear pitcher, would have shamefully turned it brown and dirty with my first use. There wasn't even a corner for this old dog to sadly curl up in.
I realized that day that nothing I had was needed in the kitchen for it to function. It already contained everything, and I offered only duplications. So I left most of my things back home for my daughter to use. David's daughter cleared out the things that were most precious to her mother, not because, as David mused, she was afraid I would take them. I knew it was because I would infect them, bruise them with the touch of my hand, even as my eye took in the view of home that had been her mother's. I knew because of Janice's pitchers. I knew because of what my cabinets looked like. I knew because I loved my own mother, I knew because it is what I would want my daughters to do for me if they could, but when their father divorced me, they could not. Dirty hands today touch what was once mine. I have to let it go, and it is very painful for all of us.
David generously told me I could do whatever I wanted, move things, reorganize. Instead I began a conversation with Janice. She was scarey, and she intimidated me. She still does. But I had to tell her, had to admit to her that I could never accomplish the order that she had in her life. The berries she grew were in jars and in the freezer, labled with the month and year they were perfectly processed, something I had always dreamed of doing. I secretly told Janice I wish I could have stood next to her to watch her work. I took communion with her every time I popped a round plump blueberry her hand had touched into my mouth. Not once, never have I taken a single bite of her harvest that I don't consciously put her image before me. I try to replicate her order; I changed nothing, but simply found nooks and crannies in the kitchen where I could put a few of the things I used from home. I did not take over, but soulfully begged a place to share. Janice has allowed that. I cook and work and clean, and form a quiet admiration society for Janice, and somehow this woman is with me. She isn't harsh, she is a teacher, and I am far more grateful than jealous. Janice and her company have made my life better,easier, and certainly far more organized. I have found a corner for the Labrador Retriever inside of me. I never imagined that taking David for a husband would mean discovering his wife, Janice, as an interior companion. She is with me every day, stuck with me, and I...well, I am a Labrador Retreiver. "Please, sweet Jesus, just pat me on the head!" Instead of finding a place for things, we have sorted out a place for each other.
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