Re-defining

On letting go. Or not. Or kind of both...

A not-quite-finished jar of apricot preserves sits lonely at the back of a shelf in the fridge. Tom loved apricot preserves; I’m a strawberry girl.

In the pantry a wee box of Jelly Bellys, still wrapped tight in its cellophane, rests next to a small brown bag of CBD gummies. The candies were a Father’s Day gift from the girls on that last visit. He was too sick to eat even one, but said he’d save them for when he felt better. The gummies were part of the strategy to feel better, to stimulate his appetite, but they didn’t work. 

Do gummies expire? I don’t know. Maybe I should give them a try. The preserves and the candy expired almost two years ago. But what kind of person throws out another person’s favorite preserves, or his sweet treats from his sweet girls? 

The daughters came the week before Father’s Day, those girls so luminous and alive and hilarious. They’re in that sweet spot, but of course they don’t know that; do any of us know it when we’re young and strong and beautiful and pursuing everything, everything, everything that this wild world offers? 

We talked about their work. One’s a  a cardiac surgical nurse, the other a human-trafficker chaser. They both look like super models, one with Tom’s stunning blue eyes, one with his traffic-stopping smile. Their big-hearted brother, who had visited earlier, looks like a rock star, handsome with that long dark hair, the smile, even Tom’s voice.

A few months after we married, Tom and I were seated at a dinner party with people we didn’t yet know. The woman on my right took one very long appreciative look at Tom and said, "You must have gorgeous children."

We smiled, We do. We do, five of them.

When we married, my two and his three were grown-ish, which is to say they were no longer minors, they were officially adults. Of course, like all of us, they were and are still growing – jobs, grad school, dating and breaking up and dating again, eventually real jobs, employed and  insured, a wedding even. Like all of us – continually learning, redefining ourselves and our relationships and our dreams.

Redefining now asks questions of me that I never anticipated. Even when I knew Tom was dying, even after he was gone, I didn’t expect to ever ponder, What do I do with expired apricot preserves? I never considered the difficulty of letting loose of dress shirts, or tennis balls, or boots. And the books. Definitely keeping all the books.

Also hard: redefining our relationship. The challenge emerges when I try to respond to questions, like Will your husband be joining you? or filling out the forms for a new doctor’s visit: Single? Married? Widowed? Um, yes, all of the above. My partner isn’t with me, but he’s here, right here. 

I’m redefining how I fit into a culture of couples, a culture that asks if my husband is coming to the event, or what he does, a culture not unkind but sometimes assumptive. And fair enough – I am, after all, still wearing my rings. Sometimes I move them to my other hand. I experiment. I haven’t figured this out yet.

This is the small and enormous daily work now, redefining. Holding on, and letting go.

Big questions, How do I navigate the wrenching ache of missing him?

Practical questions, Who can help me fix that broken sprinkler head in the garden?

Hypothetical questions, What is Uruguay like, or Croatia, and should I plan a trip?

What do we keep and what do we release?

Where do we put our heart, our energy, our love?

What do we do when we’re not sure about what to do?

Today I do what I can: The apricot preserves will wait. I feed the birds.