by | Jul 23, 2010 | 2 comments

Today’s tasks so far- let Audrey complain for a while when she woke up at six something because I was too tired to get up. Get her up, change her diaper, dress her, feed her, give her her vitamin, brush her teeth- and…thankfully- hand her over to grandma and grandpa who just came to take her to her Little Gym class.

After they left, I decided not to wait for my friend and just went through your backpack. It was a mess- not sure if that’s how the police left it or that’s how you were traveling. Mostly papers in there- the envelopes I’d told you to keep your expense receipts in because it was all so very important to me that we do this self-employed thing with the utmost professionalism. So I found those envelopes saying “tax stuff” and “food” in your handwriting- which you always claimed was so much better than mine. Your glasses were in there loose- not in the case, and glasses are very personal, so I opened and closed them. They were your favorite pair you’d ever had you said. You really liked them. I liked you in glasses, but sometimes asked you to put on contacts before we went out because you looked so handsome without them too. Going through the backpack wasn’t as difficult as I’d thought.
I thought I would find gifts you’d purchased for Audrey and me while on the first week of the tour. You usually came back with a ton of little things. But maybe not this time, maybe because I’d told you before you left: “Don’t bring a whole bunch of little things- just wait and buy one nice thing for each of us.” God- I was controlling.
I think it also wasn’t hard because I still don’t know I’m going through it because you’re dead. Feels like I just get to look through your stuff and that feels kind of fun.
Audrey and I ate mangos and muffins this morning. I am eating again- but can’t say I enjoy it. While we ate, I looked out at my desk, now covered in your framed photos from the funeral and the white orchid arrangement from the funeral in the middle. It’s kind of an altar I’ve created and have decided to put fresh flowers in the middle of the desk each week- kind of in lieu of the grave perhaps since as of yet, I have no desire to go there. You would often buy me flowers and put them there for me…usually when you’d “messed up” in some way. I’d look outside the window and see you get off the bus carrying the big cone shaped paper and think- “oh, flowers.” not in a thankful way but really because i took it for granted- that hey, you should be bringing flowers. But at the same time- I was very delighted inside. “Flowers.”
You were great at picking them out and took special care. Just the way you though picking out a cute stuffed animal was a skill that most did not have. “That’s just not cute,” you would say. “It’s ugly.” “People don’t know what’s cute.” Well, your flowers were always chosen with an artful eye- sometimes with the color having a particular meaning- sometimes because you just thought they were particularly pretty.
I always told you that there was nothing more joyful than fresh flowers…and nothing more depressing than flowers in a vase that were droopy and dying. You liked that.
Today I noticed the orchid arrangement from your funeral is pretty much done. Today is the day you would’ve been coming home.
After Audrey and I ate the mango slices, I threw out the core and a lot of good flesh left on it. After we ate fruit, you always finished up what remained around the core or pit. You said it was the best part.


July 23, 2010


  1. Annice

    I so wish I could have met your Dan. Your writing leaves me with a desperate desire to know him. I'm so sorry for your loss. It's hard to find a man who truly appreciates a cute stuffed animal.

  2. thequales

    Reading your tribute and now this… I have gone through similar things with my husband and am very much like you. It's midnight and I'm in bed with the youngest, waiting to hear the garage door open, looking at the clock, fighting sleepiness because I don't like to sleep alone, even with three kids and a dog here. I think of how controlling I can be too, and how your Dan and my husband must be the best there ever were. I thank you for reminding me not to take things for granted. Your daughter, one day, will have wonderful memories of a beautiful man. Please keep writing.


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