Friday, June 11, 2010

The Death Certificate


I keep a certified copy of My Dead Husband’s death certificate in my purse.  I had to take it to the Georgia Power office so they would believe that he is really dead and it’s okay to put the bill in my name.  (I have impeccable credit).  

I had tucked it into my orange leather envelope where I keep stamps and photos but didn’t realize it was still there until about a week later when I went looking for a stamp.  I unfolded it and looked at it for a minutes, then folded it back up and put it back - snuggled it between a photos of the twins and some Christmas stamps.  

Now I can’t take it out, not and keep it out.  It goes with me everywhere as though I need a reminder that Clint is dead.  Maybe I’m still trying to find him.  Maybe I’m still not conviced he’s gone.  What kind of a lunatic does that make me?  Seriously, am I coming apart at the seams and just don’t notice?  

How in the name of hell could it be that I need another reminder that I’ll never see his sweet face again, that I will never hold his hand or laugh at one of his terrible jokes or float around in the hot tub with him constantly trying to poke his big toe between my legs?  I’ll never clean up the kitchen counter after he has made a messy peanut butter and jelly sandwich because he refuses my help or see the look on his face at the sight of his great grand twins, Abbey and Drew.  I’ll never again cuss him out for making faces while I’m trying to take his picture or feel his arms around me as he dances me around the kitchen to “Hey Baby.”  He’ll never sigh and say, “You and that dog are both hopeless,” when I lie up in bed writing and feeding my dog, Honey, little bites of rice cakes.  I’ll never roll over during the night and be stuck by one of his flosser-things because he fell asleep with it in his mouth.  I won’t get to see the pride in his eyes when I go to work for hospice.  And on and on and on....................

I keep breathing and sleeping and eating and writing and reading but it’s not enough.  Not yet.  I live for the day when I can revel in all my memories of Clint instead of aching from his loss.

Pity party?  Goddamned right!  Hell, yeah!  And I’ll have as many as I need to get through this.

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