The email app in my phone has updated itself without my consent, so imagine my surprise when I opened it at 7 this morning to see my messages organized into multiple tabs that I haven’t chosen. Which meant, of course, that one of those tabs has all my “recent” messages from eBay in one thread, with the last item Kellie ordered at the top of that thread. If you’re wondering, it was paper refills for a journal.
I know that we probably all have a habit of buying things that we don’t need, and Kellie was no exception to that rule. Some of her favorite purchases were notebooks and journals and pens and colored pencils and crayons and markers. She loved the idea of self-expression, and thinking about new ways to do that was always exciting to Kellie.
I wish, more than anything in the world, that she had spent more time WRITING in some of those journals. You don’t know how many empty journals I have in my home, and I deeply, deeply crave the ability to interact with thoughts that she had or things she might have had to say. Because then the massive absence of her in my life can get filled, just for a minute, by something personal she left behind.
I’ve done much more writing, throughout my life, in digital formats. After I’m gone, I know that somebody is going to have plenty to clean up and organize here (though a lot less than after Kellie died). But I don’t know that anyone is going to have the motivation or interest to go through all those old laptops and accounts to see the thoughts I’ve spent countless hours articulating. It’s a lot more likely that they’ll get thrown away or deleted or that those accounts will be allowed to expire, and that’s mostly okay with me.
Sometimes I think about the fact that I’m not going to be as missed by anyone after I’m gone as Kellie is currently being missed by me, and that makes me sad for a bit. I know that loss (and love) is not a competition, and that measuring who’s missed more or less than anyone else isn’t a metric that makes any sense. But this pain that I experience is just so heavy, sometimes. It’s hard to avoid thinking about my own mortality at times, and I can’t say that it’s a good feeling to not have that one person who is in love with me as deeply as Kellie was.
I’ve worn her two wedding rings (one from 1996, one from 2016) on a chain around my neck since the day I got them back from the funeral home. She was wearing them when she died, so they’re the last physical items she touched when she was still alive. I know that the odds are low that anyone will want to wear them after I’m gone, much less my own ring.
What kinds of physical artifacts will you leave behind after you’re gone? Do they fill you with joy, or do you worry about how it will feel for whoever shows up to look at what’s left of your life when you’re not here anymore? It’s pretty likely a combination of emotions, as is true of most things in this complicated and messy world.
I know it’s all just stuff. But it feels really weird to be the only one holding all our stories now. Nobody but me knows the artist we had paint a caricature of Sage at the farmer’s market in 2015 or 2016, and why that painting matters so much to me now. Nobody but me knows about the significance of this lamp, or of the end table, or of the many, many books throughout my home. It feels like walking around through a field of ghosts sometimes, because all those stories are so loud in my heart really late at night or really early in the morning. And there’s nobody to remind about those stories, because they don’t mean the same thing to anyone but me now.
I hate this, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So I think, and I talk, and I write, and I try my hardest not to sink into despair in the quietest times (when those hundreds of stories are loudest, which is pretty ironic if you think about it).
I was so grateful to hear from a friend early this morning while I was writing the first few paragraphs of this pretty sad entry. Her text came in at the exact perfect moment, and that stopped me from crying quite so hard. So did Coco, who chose a great time to hop up on my lap and literally lick the tears off my face. Which, I feel I need to say here, is a task I’m not asking for anyone but Coco to perform. She seems to like the taste, and it sure makes me feel better, so I’m not going to discourage her.
Shortly after that, I heard from someone else inviting me to hang out, so we of course went to Mentor for more tacos. That’s becoming an every-Tuesday thing for me, and I certainly don’t mind. It got my mind off the morning sadness, and I treasure the time I get to spend with people (especially when I’m struggling).
Tonight, a friend who has been promising/threatening to call me for a while asked if I was free for a conversation, and we talked on the phone for an hour, which was really wonderful. Even though I have a call with my parents every day, getting to talk with someone who isn’t my parents is really nice as well, and it was a rare treat to get all that social contact with more than one person today. I really enjoyed it!
I don’t know if I have any deeply-profound way to close out today’s newsletter, other than to say that I’m doing okay. I hope your Tuesday was full of as many loving people as mine was (and if it wasn’t, call someone and try to make it happen for you tomorrow)!
Another day down, and tomorrow marks yet another week without my soulmate.
XOXO,
Matt