He Hid Himself in Every Room So I Could Survive Him

That one made him wince.

Good.

I needed him to.

“I’m mad that you made six soups,” I said. “Six, Frank. You hate soup.”

That got the smallest smile.

“I still hate soup.”

I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“And I’m mad that you noticed which pill upsets my stomach and that the batteries are behind the cereal and that the porch light burns out faster in winter and that you think I need instructions for the lawn mower.”

He watched me.

Really watched me.

The way he used to when one of the kids was sick and I was pretending not to be scared.

Then he said quietly, “You don’t need the instructions.”

“No?”

“No. You need me not leaving a mess.”

That broke something open in me.

Because it was so Frank.

So him.

Not poetry.

Not “I can’t bear to leave you.”

Not “You are the love of my life.”

Just that.

I need to not leave a mess.

I bent forward and put my face in my hands.

For a minute neither of us spoke.

The clock ticked.

The refrigerator hummed.

A car went by outside with its music too loud for the hour.

Then Frank said, “Nance?”

I looked up.

“I’m not writing the notes because I think you’re weak.”

“I know.”

“I’m writing them because all the little things take the biggest bites out of people after a funeral.”