Yesterday was sort of sad. The baby has been talking about Dave a lot. I’m remembering now that the grief counselors advised that the kids would re-grieve at each new developmental stage in their lives. The baby is turning into a big boy. He’s going to school. He’s doing bigger boy things. And realizing that Dave is dead….again.
I went through some photos yesterday, so I could print a few pics of him with his daddy. I framed one and put it in his bedroom. Merely looking through the photos cast me into a tail spin. I was quickly clicking from one to the next, when I came upon a video. His voice sliced me open like a knife. It was like he was standing right there. Dear God I hate the sadness. I tortured myself for a few more minutes, and then decided I should do something I’ve been putting off too long. The cemetery. I’m not much of a grave lurker. The place creeps me out. Especially if I’m alone. But Dave has not had new flowers in several months. I don’t want his stuff looking all ratty. It’s disrespectful, I guess. Sort of like killing yourself. But I do still have moments in which I love him and miss him. Even though I say I don’t. In fact, just since I recently declared that I don’t cry for him anymore, I’ve actually been crying for him a lot. Well played you brilliant universe, you.
So I sulked over to the cemetery, feeling as sorry for myself as anyone could. I got out of the car with my head slung low and a painful lump in my throat. I’m a widow, and I still can’t believe it. I’m only 43 years old. My babies are still so little. These should be the happiest moments in our lives right now. Instead I am here. I don’t think it’ll ever sink in completely. How could this have happened?
Increasingly I feel guilty. Guilty for every fight we ever had, for every mean thing I ever said to him, for every time I was hateful and revengeful towards him. I torture myself by pressing the rewind button in my head, over and over again. Eventually I come to my senses and admit that I didn’t make him do this. I remind myself over and over of what was really going on. And how little I knew about what my own husband was doing. That part makes me feel stupid. I can’t believe he got me so good. Fooled me over and over and over again, relentlessly. Then I get mad again. Up and down, up and down, the rickety roller coaster…until I just say fuck it, and push it all away.
Where was I? Oh yes, how I almost had my arms amputated by flowers. I quickly scooped up the faded and fraying flowers, and drove straight to the flower store. I like to do the arrangements myself. It’s the only thing I can still do for him, I guess. I decided on sunflowers, some pretty browns and yellows and oranges. Nothing too bright, but pretty enough for Fall. I knew the kids would like them. I came home and started arranging. Some were too long. These assholes who make these flowers, they don’t want you to cut the stems. No siree. They want them exactly the length they made them. I know this because they put like six very thick strong wires all together. I tried bending. I tried giant garden loppers. I tried wire cutters, at least I think that’s what I was using? I finally had enough of the ridiculous charade and decided I will show these fucking flowers who’s the boss. I will cut them with this big ass table saw. Still a big pile of sawdust under it. I can’t clean it up. Because it’s Dave’s pile of saw dust. So I turned it on, and held the flowers in front of the blade and WAM! Sparks flew everywhere and the flowers were not cut. No, that would be too normal. The flowers, instead, with their thick wires made by the people who like too-long stems, got sucked up into the blade. My hand was instantly jerked and pulled towards the blade, with the force of I don’t know what? The gods obviously did not select the amputee card this day, because I let go. Just in time. My heart was pounding at what I just did. I think I almost lost my hand. The wires were all tangled up in the blade. A big knotted mess. I unplugged the machine and surgically removed the demonic wires. I looked down, and every flower was now off the stems. Every single one was lying in the pile of sawdust. It was a weird moment, really. I just stood there. I said, “What, you don’t want these flowers?” I’m so weird sometimes. I felt even more defeated. I can’t even cut the fucking flowers. But I’m the Goddess of Everything. I will have my way with these prick flowers. So I dug around and found some type of sharp filing or scraping hand tool. I laid the flowers down, put the tool just so, and whacked them with a framing hammer. Mutha-1, Demonic amputating flowers-0.
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