With details sorted out in my head for the memorial, Oliver was off to Puppy Camp for a week. So many oddities would occur all at once, leaving the perfect opportunity for Ollie to have a barking melt down during “Amazing Grace”, or a grand theft of Subway Sandwiches when no one was looking. These possibilities were more than I could deal with. Oliver and I discussed this, he assuring me that he understood. The Friday before, he and I drove to Carson City, where we had our first tearful goodbye ever.
The weekend was one for smoothing details, deciding on clothing, crying alone, and grieving. The house was quiet and the loneliest without my four-legged bestie following me around. The yard was groomed and in full bloom, sprinklers cycling on and off helping what should grow do just that.
I must speak a bit about the brilliance of my yard. I use My in a very temporary way, as we are all caretakers for the next occupants, honoring those that came before us. The creators and caretakers prior to me took CARE to CREATE beauty. The entire yard, not just a corner, but the ENTIRE thing is landscaped. All 1/2 acre of this yard is covered in landscape cloth. Then, covered with a variety of gravels or decomposed granite (DG). All plants are watered through two functioning and separate drip systems that are scheduled for varying times, giving proper water to each living thing in the yard. There are paths for walking and a patio of sitting. There is grass for feeling good under bare feet. There is decomposed granite for comfort where one should walk, and gravel over flower beds, not for walking. There are pathway lights, and up-lighting on the trees at night. This yard is my happy place.
The week before the house became mine, I have already spoken to the fact that I was freaking out. Yes. FREAKING OUT. 1/2 acre. Me. Alone. To care for this. 15 days a widow. Monumental. And for a few minutes, unthinkable. Well, the prior caretakers to this piece of heaven thought everything through for me, and it has been easy and fun to watch over WINTERPAST (for new readers, this is the name of the property since July 15th. Look up King Solomon 2: 10-14).
Thank goodness the jitters didn’t win. Slowly but surely, I had been moving my yard art into the right spots. The weekend before the Memorial, everything was waiting for company. I had figured out the arrangement for seating. Not Covid approved, the guests would be under the patio cover looking out into the yard. The family would sit on the lawn under two tents, looking back towards the house. Everyone would be shaded and seated. Although, NOT COVID APPROVED. By this point, I had long moved past worries of COVID. It had robbed me of seeing so many special guests, health compromised and unable to attend. It would NOT rob me of a special morning to say Good Bye.
Getting back to preparations. I made my way to the beauty shop to have my hair cut Saturday morning. My wonderful, amazing, beautiful realtor had given me a gift certificate. Maybe as a hint to my “Covid Non-Coif”, mournful and unattended, for sure. The beautician and I had met once before, she, a wonderful young mother, caring and sweet. We talked about the memorial and all the plans while she snipped and cut. A little bit here, a little bit there, in an hour she had me Memorial ready.
My next task was to decide on what to wear. How many times VST had delighted to look through bags of clothing I would bring home after a day of shopping. He loved it when I bought new clothes and wanted to see every last piece. On days that I didn’t find anything, he was as disappointed as me. He would drive me to any mall, any time, any where, if there was something I was looking for. The thing is, I hate shopping, so, he was usually off the hook.
Several years back, (like 10 or so), I had found an adorable dress online. Just a plan black dress. Empire style and loose fitting under the boobs, it would hide the 10-20 pounds that came and went like the seasons. 3/4 sleeves, it was made of a stretchy fabric that moved nicely when I walked, the dress was knee length. It revealed the slightest decolletage, of which mine, my 80 year old dermatologist once declared during my medical exam, was flawless. Just sayin. The dress came with a bulky pearl necklace. All for $14.95.
This dress had saved me on so many occasions when VST had a last minute invitation or function in which I had waited too long to buy something. It always fit just right. Skinny Joy. Plump Joy. This dress just fit. Through the years, it went to weddings and funerals. Parties and Meetings. Dinners. Hawaii. This dress had gone everywhere and done everything. It had danced in VST’s arms, safe and warm. It had pouted when VST was being a bull-headed man. It had seen Grandson’s sing, dance, and graduate. There wasn’t really a different choice that could be made. This dress would be the one in which I would eulogize my husband. Me, myself, and my little black dress.
Along with the black dress, I would wear black tights, last worn when VST and I went to dinner together for Valentine’s Day in Carson City. That was Valentine’s Day 2020, not another year or time. Just MONTHS before. My go-to shoes were, and still are, comfortable black flats. With everything the day would hold, flats were the best. In truth, I only wear flats and these happen to be my favorite. A mix of patent leather toe and flat black leather back, they hold a small bow on the top of each shoe. Stitching on the patent leather finishes such a cute look. They are my favorite, most comfortable shoes, and I wear them for special things. This would qualify.
No jewelry except my wedding ring and the gold cross VST bought me for Christmas 2019 would be worn. I don’t do jewelry. I’m not grown up enough to have patience for it. I don’t have pierced ears and I don’t wear a watch. Forgettabout diamonds for me. All of it is lost on me. It fascinates me to think I wore my beloved wedding ring for 32.5 years, every moment of my life. I took it off for very little, never finding it cumbersome or bothersome. It was part of my hand. Comfort Fit. When swimming off Waikiki Beach, VST always wore a little neck safe in which we would both put our rings for safe keeping. Other than that, we always wore our rings.
Until the heartbreaking day.
His fell off, VST having lost so much weight, it didn’t fit anymore. In truth, he didn’t have enough strength to deal with the added weight of a size 12 band of gold. Already so sick, he handed it to me. “Here. Put this away. It fell off.” My heart broke even more that day on the road to devastation.
No manicure/pedicure, or other fluffy, girly-type services were needed. On the day of, I would shower, blow-dry my hair, adorn large, black sun glasses and call it good. Makeup would be pointless. No explanation needed for that.
As I collected the clothing in one organized area on Sunday afternoon, it occurred to me that I would never wear this favorite dress again after July 15th. It would become kryptonite to my Super Hero soul. Repelling magnets, my favorite dress and I. I wouldn’t wash it ever again. Just like my beautiful wedding dress up on the shelf with the smudges and tears from the happiest day of my life, my little black dress would rest in the box, with her. The happiest and saddest clothing would need to nestle into forever, because I wouldn’t look at either again for a very long time, if ever.
Sunday, late afternoon, I walked around the yard picking a dead rose head here, a sprouting weed out of place there. The bird families had taken up residency in the little bird houses on stakes. When VST and I chose the house together in February, I had made note of them, thinking to myself that REAL birds don’t make nests in little wooden houses. These magic houses were on their second or third families already, the soft chirping of newly hatched finches adding to the sound of bird songs surrounding me. My lawn was lush and green, an inviting oasis in the high desert. Everything was the crispest green. The sky was the most beautiful shade of blue, as only someone who lives in the high desert can understand. Breathtaking. Big Sky. Big Dreams. Big Sorrow. Everything more pronounced when standing under the vast Nevada sky.
Sunday, I went to sleep with the setting sun, the moon rising to cradle me in her soft glow. A troubled widow found a more troubling sleep, as everything lay prepared for the new week. A week that would hold so much, more must wait. Every little detail needs to be written just so, because, THIS would be the week of the unthinkable. THIS would be the week I could no longer deny. I. AM. A. WIDOW.
Be Patient, dear readers. Time and The Memorial — Part 3 to come.