He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

Do not let anybody rush you because they love you and are scared. Fear can dress up like good sense. It is still fear.

My throat tightened so hard it hurt.

He went on.

They will start planning while I am still here. Don’t hold it against them. That’s how some people grieve. They get busy. They make lists. They measure rooms. They call places. They talk too much about safety when what they really mean is they cannot bear one more thing they cannot control.

I looked toward the living room.

He was still sleeping.

Still here.

And still somehow ahead of all of us.

At the bottom he’d written:

Eat something before making any big decision. You think clearer with toast.

Then, beneath that, like he’d almost forgotten to add it:

And if Mark starts talking numbers before I’m gone, send him outside to fix that loose porch rail he’s ignored for six years.

I laughed.

I actually laughed.

Then I put my hand over my mouth and cried into my palm so I wouldn’t wake him.

Because there it was.

Frank.

In one page.

Not dramatic.

Not sentimental.

Just brutally, beautifully accurate.

Our son Mark did talk numbers when he was worried.

Not because he was cold.

Because if he could turn fear into figures, he thought maybe it would stop being fear.

And our daughter Ellen did get busy.

She cleaned when she was upset.

Organized cabinets.

Refolded blankets that did not need folding.

She was the kind of person who would scrub a counter while her heart was breaking and call it coping.