Missing A Loved One

Jane used to love Saturdays.
The lack of a schedule, the opportunity to sleep in, the time together in the kitchen, the home projects they would undertake, the spontaneous plans for dinner or drinks with another couple.
Now Saturdays mean too much time to think and too much open space to be blindsided by a memory or a worry.
Jane’s antidote is to try to stay busy, the opposite of how Saturdays used to be. Hitting the farmer’s market at 6 a.m. reduces the chance of seeing friends who exchange pleasantries but notably steer clear of direct eye contact — and the subject of the accident last winter. Exercise helps, because it keeps her in the moment, thinking about her pace, her sweat, her streak, her podcast. It’s good to have a weekend Zoom call planned with the kids who carve out time from their own busy lives to check in. Those virtual galleries are a safe space for expression of love and grief. Just looking in their eyes and hearing their voices bathes her in comfort. Structuring Saturdays gives her new life some guardrails.
One item on Jane’s task list this Saturday is the back yard. It’s finally been warm for a stretch, and the lawn is looking parched. It would benefit from the sprinkler. So she heads into the garage to retrieve the garden hose.
And then it hits her. It was James who last hung up that hose on the garage hook in November, when neither of them had any idea what would soon happen. His strong hands were the last one to touch it. Same with those work gloves in the basket. What else did they do that day? God, she wishes he could be back in that garage with her just doing something mundane.
And now suddenly, thanks to a damn garden hose, another hour, another day, another Saturday is unraveling. Blindsided by a memory and a moment. The cycling starts. Her throat constricts. She’s nauseous and angry. She sits down on the bench to gather herself. What if he had just left a few moments earlier? What exactly happened? Why the delays at the hospital? What is that careless ass doing right now?
Some deep breaths, a mindful pause, and then with a tightened jaw, she grabs the hose off the hook and takes it to the back yard. That’s certainly what James would have wanted her to do. “Press on,” she hears his kind voice say. And she is going to press on this Saturday — and in the days ahead, seeking a better understanding of what happened. She is going to be sure that the story of their preventable tragedy is told. James deserves that. So do other families like theirs.
As Jane watches sprinkler angle water back and forth across the lawn and into the flower beds, she can hear laughter from years past in this yard. Now, it’s both comforting and painful. The kids running through the sprinkler in their bathing suits. The giant piles of leaves that James would create for them to dive into. The snow forts. The graduation tents.
But on this Saturday, it’s just Jane in the back yard with an iced tea — and the garden hose.
Will the blindsides become less frequent? Will Saturdays become Saturdays again?
The lack of a schedule, the opportunity to sleep in, the time together in the kitchen, the home projects they would undertake, the spontaneous plans for dinner or drinks with another couple.
Now Saturdays mean too much time to think and too much open space to be blindsided by a memory or a worry.
Jane’s antidote is to try to stay busy, the opposite of how Saturdays used to be. Hitting the farmer’s market at 6 a.m. reduces the chance of seeing friends who exchange pleasantries but notably steer clear of direct eye contact — and the subject of the accident last winter. Exercise helps, because it keeps her in the moment, thinking about her pace, her sweat, her streak, her podcast. It’s good to have a weekend Zoom call planned with the kids who carve out time from their own busy lives to check in. Those virtual galleries are a safe space for expression of love and grief. Just looking in their eyes and hearing their voices bathes her in comfort. Structuring Saturdays gives her new life some guardrails.
One item on Jane’s task list this Saturday is the back yard. It’s finally been warm for a stretch, and the lawn is looking parched. It would benefit from the sprinkler. So she heads into the garage to retrieve the garden hose.
And then it hits her. It was James who last hung up that hose on the garage hook in November, when neither of them had any idea what would soon happen. His strong hands were the last one to touch it. Same with those work gloves in the basket. What else did they do that day? God, she wishes he could be back in that garage with her just doing something mundane.
And now suddenly, thanks to a damn garden hose, another hour, another day, another Saturday is unraveling. Blindsided by a memory and a moment. The cycling starts. Her throat constricts. She’s nauseous and angry. She sits down on the bench to gather herself. What if he had just left a few moments earlier? What exactly happened? Why the delays at the hospital? What is that careless ass doing right now?
Some deep breaths, a mindful pause, and then with a tightened jaw, she grabs the hose off the hook and takes it to the back yard. That’s certainly what James would have wanted her to do. “Press on,” she hears his kind voice say. And she is going to press on this Saturday — and in the days ahead, seeking a better understanding of what happened. She is going to be sure that the story of their preventable tragedy is told. James deserves that. So do other families like theirs.
As Jane watches sprinkler angle water back and forth across the lawn and into the flower beds, she can hear laughter from years past in this yard. Now, it’s both comforting and painful. The kids running through the sprinkler in their bathing suits. The giant piles of leaves that James would create for them to dive into. The snow forts. The graduation tents.
But on this Saturday, it’s just Jane in the back yard with an iced tea — and the garden hose.
Will the blindsides become less frequent? Will Saturdays become Saturdays again?