And That’s The Story

When his late wife’s morning glories – the same kind I’ve planted – didn’t come up last summer, Daniel was upset. He talked about it whenever we stood by that spot by the fountain where they once grew. Personally, I didn’t sweat it – the flowers were cheap, easy to replace, and I didn’t think it was the worst thing in the world to show him via landscape that things change over time.

The widower’s home is something he never dreamed he’d have. It was a good deal in a lousy market in an area he thought would always be beyond him. Once those two moved in he began doing renovations and, of course, the wifey instantly filled it with the belongings she had accumulated over her fifty years of living.

Spiritually, Danny believes they will be reunited one day in heaven. He waits.

My name is Autumn May. I’m the consolation prize.

I have been feeling like a visitor in their home, very much like I just don’t belong. I am 33 years old and in the stages of creation. I’m learning about table settings, patterns, styles and all of the wonderful things that make home, home. Dan has informed me that every fabric, every color, every item tangible with their sentiments intact, shall remain right where they are, forever.

Last night I saw no reason to make it through the Pottery Barn magazine (issued in her name). I just threw it away.

Well then. That’s a shame because the red and white checkered curtains look like a picnic cloth vomited all over the windows, and I could too easily go on from there. So that’s kind of a real bummer. But it isn’t the permanently outdated fashions that concern me about this little house ruling.

His home is the material conclusion of everything he possesses. Some women would date him for the house – I am not one of those women. As a result, I am feeling crowded out. There are simply limits to how accommodating, understanding, and ultimately boring I can be. And our relationship requires a space that’s all our own to flourish in to US, but his little fixer upper in Farmington Hills is exploding with someone else’s shit.

He calls me crazy for having issues with this. The painted paneling and wooden floors are his obsession and he is ready to devote his life to every material and texture. In his mind, he bought and arranged the perfect box for the perfect life and the objective to live together with his wife inside of it was tragically ended prematurely. That doesn’t seem to have stopped him from trying to play out the same story line minus the main character, anyway. In fact, he thinks he is generously making room for me when he plants my hostas under the bird feeder and gives me my little operation in his marital home.

Yes, his entire scenario was threatened but he refuses to let go of the slightest part of his broken dream. I watched and helped him with several projects last summer and if his step children desire anything more they will have to win in court for it. He can’t see why I am suddenly proceeding with hesitance down this path of material sadness.

I made the decision to co-habilitate with him very early on. I was headstrong in love, confident in my feelings and I couldn’t imagine any sort of “stuff” getting in the way of my relationship with him. But I would instantly and always tip toe around her, her memories, her possessions, as if she was going to be home from the store at any moment. It was easier to look past the creep factor and just remember that she was never coming back, when I still had so much more to figure out. As I came to envision a real long-term relationship and not just a “in the meantime” guy, I began to consider what “forever” meant, and I realized that our environment was not built to last.

He doesn’t consider us. He doesn’t consider our future. He doesn’t care to know which articles are a stinging trigger for me, and even those he is aware of, are looking at me from every angle. His structure is a dark castle that separates him from the onward world outside of it. Every item is a weight that keeps him firmly planted in the time capsule I not-so-lovingly coined as “The Dead Wife Museum” the other day in argument. The way this is all going because of how it has to look – he wants it, and has forbid me from changing it.

He is basically telling me that I cannot stay. And I have to acknowledge the way he sees things and confess that I am not the kind of girl to kill time with until you meet back up with the wife in the afterlife. I deserve negotiation and equality to start, and love to last.

This morning the long-lost morning glory wove a late vine around some leggy daisies and bloomed for me to see before I went to work. Beautiful, bitter sweet flower. It said to me, that Dan and his wife are the ones meant to live there. They are the item, waiting on their next date. After everything I did and how hard I fought against everything and everyone, this truly breaks my heart.

I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be a real world, real girl, real chance opportunity for a good life filled with love and happiness… but it will never come at the cost of this melancholy house rental agreement (literally, I have a lease and I pay rent). The love of my life is probably not going to insist that his Irish girlfriend be drowned in Greek décor and someone else’s name embroidered on the bathrobe hanging on the chair.

Autumn, I know that you picked him. But it might not be a good thing.

Maybe one day he will meet someone who makes all of this clear to him. Maybe he will catch on that women will typically not want to be replacements in his marriage. Maybe he’ll find someone who uses her coffee mugs unabashedly and even fits in to her clothes. Or maybe he will never let his heart be spoken for anyone besides his late wife.

No matter how it plays out, I wish him peace and joy in his life.

Things do indeed change over time – but I didn’t expect it to be me in this scenario. I really want him, morning glory.

Too Quickly, and So Slowly

I didn’t find my rhythm, but a rhythm found me. Practicing how to prepare meals, learning how to iron shirts and picking up on all of the things that Mr. Walton can’t accomplish in time, I was also building a pattern. It is the most considerate that I have ever been for anyone besides myself, in years.

Introduce more technology than he knows what to do with, but quickly leans to do well. Roku, Netflix, LG Tones to replace the guy who was always broadcasting calls from mom on speakerphone, the replacement parts he needs, the software to look in to his late wife’s locked iphone, the 3DS that admittedly sits more than gets used because ‘Mario is gay’ and ‘where are all of the shooter games’…I guess not everything translates.

Wake up when he does. Stumble downstairs and listen to ‘Breaking Bad’ playing from the den while you make a lunch. Put the food into the little dome-top, construction worker style box I found for him to replace the plastic sacks he had always used. Slip in a quote, this time, one of his own profound lines of wisdom.

“Fuckin’ A, swear to God.” –D.Walton

Feel happy when strangers approach you to compliment on the appearance of your couple hood, whether it’s because you ‘look cute together’ or because you’re bickering in a grocery store and everyone around you is laughing, insisting it’s love… then nonchalantly stroll off in to the void when he tells those people, who have just seen you enter their scene as a twosome, that his wife just died.

Oh, you must be the redheaded whore! It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Go with him to the radiology lab because he thinks his side pain could be cancer. Write in the journal, already filled with things about God’s love and the occasional torn out page, why you are there and about the TV show you caught Mr. Walton up on.

He enjoys ‘The Walking Dead’ and I believe it’s because people lose loved ones to a zombie outbreak and nothing is the same ever again – the tomorrow they anticipated is forever gone. I catch him wiping away tears as the main character, a sheriff, leads his pack of survivors through to the uncertain, unknown…

When I look at him I see a leader who is lost but a leader still. That’s why, when I see him struggle, I think, “Keep going, sheriff. I need you.”

Laugh with him later about how they neglected to tell him that the chalky sludge he was required to drink for his scan, would make him suddenly have to shit uncontrollably. In my car. Much later. In fact, we don’t laugh about that yet. His pride is an obstacle.

Take back a shirt because it says ‘fitted’ and he needs ‘classic fit’. Find better colors than the ones that Call Moms Cell selected from the Easter Parade Palette. When you get your schedule wrong and arrive at work too early, refuse to go home because you know his mother is there and still refuses to look upon you for the blasphemous way you came in to his life.

Drive aimlessly for hours, considering the concept of ‘home’, ‘hope’, and ‘worth it’.

“You don’t want to disrupt the balance of the universe. I love that about you,” he will offer, hearing of the afternoon I spent in hot parking lots, crying over how nothing ever seems to be working out.

When you warn him about the seemingly impending doom and he feels like you “threatened to leave”, find yourself speechless when he asks, “Notice anything different about the room” – and her photos are no longer on the mantle.

Act like you don’t notice, because you hadn’t. You were trying to look past them for months, anyway. Give him some credit and understand that he’s trying. Don’t push.

When you walk in to the formal dining room to water the plants, it takes a couple visits before you look up on the tall dresser and realize…the photos were never taken down. They were just moved.

Wonder if you ought to push harder, then…just don’t. You’re tired and officially know nothing, again.

Pick up the dry cleaning. Clean the house. Gather trash for him to push to the curb. Get better at ironing. Move some things around in the laundry room that cause him to bitch a fit, because he is neurotically obsessive compulsive, and have his mother insisting “that girl has an agenda, Danny. I KNOW it.”

She still doesn’t know that you have been sleeping in the same room. Always.

Try to look past the tacky Disney décor that She saw fit to put in every direction. Every Pooh bear, every silly, gaudy cartoon porcelain thing will be like he’s screaming ‘Team Dead Wife’. Pledge allegiance to The Mouse.

mickeyhat                                                    “Oh, Mickey, what a pity, you don’t understand.”

Let him take you out. Let him show you how to pick up the golf ball before the last hole swallows it and run over to the other side of the course and play more putt-putt for free. Roll your eyes when he says “Let me teach you something”, because he always says that, and love to hate him a little when he proceeds to make a hole in one.

Bring him to absurd places that he thought was beyond him. When the ‘Tiled Kilt’ waitress brings him a ‘blow job’ shot and everyone insists he takes it without using his hands, he will abide and they will all cheer. And when some of it proceeds to come out his nose on to the bar, they will cheer more loudly for him than before.

Smirk silently when you hear him say, “Mom, I can’t hear you; I’m at Hooters” and all you hear on the other end is Old Woman Screaming.

When he tosses the neighborhood picnic flyer away, pick it back up. Uncrumple it. Write a check for the two of you to attend and bring canned goods for Forgotten Harvest. When they call you and ask you to run the children’s games, say OK. Include Mr. Walton, who needs to get out and make friendly with the community. He will tug of war, speak through the megaphone, blow his whistle and everyone will love him for it.

You will bake a peach and pineapple upside down cake for the bakeoff and win that mother fucker. It will have to do with the power outage leaving many without ovens, but you made your entry ahead of time. You deserved to win, anyway.

princesses

When I saw the Disney towels in the other room, I suggested he give them to the little girls next door. This is them looking at their new reflections in the garage hutch.

Do so many things together with so much curiosity and good intention that he has to eventually admit that he is moving on, having fun and finding parts of himself that he had lost long before he lost anyone else.

When he’s off to work, open his closets and hold shirts up to ties until you coordinated a beautiful suit. Hang it on his bathroom door to save him a few minutes the following morning. When he asks where the ‘hook’ came from, you know he always means to ask if it’s something that came from you or something you found in his house of wonders.

Of the things that are yours – which he is slowly learning, are more than he realizes, answer, “I don’t remember. Too long ago.”

Wonder, when you see him moving on to the white coffee mug with black scrolls across the top, if he realizes that’s not another one of his late wife’s mugs that he has taken a custom to. It’s one of yours… but don’t ask him if he knows. When you feel brave enough to test and see, just say…

“That’s a really nice looking mug.” And decide in advance, when and if he says, “It’s my wife’s…”

How you are going to respond in this delicate relationship that flies by too quickly but changes so slowly, the two of you tend to overlook it.