Hello, My Name Is: Widower

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This Saturday was the ninth anniversary of my late wife’s death.

The first few years after Miranda died, I marked the occasion by a solitary pilgrimage to the coast where I once sprinkled her ashes. Being her widower was my religion and the anniversary of her death was the high holy day; I prepared for weeks. But I’ve been getting sloppy. Being a widower is no longer a religion, it’s simply the sad state of things. Like being held prisoner by God while wishing you could just be an atheist. Where I used to pack the tent for a star-strewn rendezvous with her memory on the beach, now I just get a haircut, I put on a tie, and then I drink scotch until my guts dissolve and leak out between my eyelids into the powder-blue carpeting where she used to sit in her sweatpants and casually flick through Time and Newsweek like celebrity-gossip rags.

Two years ago, I settled for a stagger down memory lane with a bottle of scotch and a knee-high stack of overstuffed photo albums. Last year, I forewent the scrapbooks and settled for just the bottle of scotch. This year, I forgot altogether.

Until she reminded me.

I’ve always been a cynic. Miranda, while living, was both practical and tenderhearted. She could make me see the point of something, the utility. The cosmic importance of certain romantic tendencies. How things knit together in a profound and meaningful way. Her down-to-earth kindness was persuasive; I always agreed with her. But she died before she taught me how to see things the same way.

Being the party animal that I am, I decided to spend Saturday afternoon and evening cleaning out the garage. (This was before I remembered I was supposed to be sobbing into a bottle of Johnny Walker until 2 a.m.) For a single person, my garage was surprisingly full of crap. I don’t own a car, but if I did, I wouldn’t be able to park it in there. Instead, I own(ed): A stationary exercise bike my sister gave me when she upgraded to a treadmill. Boxes of junk mail from five years ago. Mr. Pibb’s fishbowl. Three framed inspirational posters featuring words like “Determination” or “Achieve”. I had already made three trips to Goodwill and was eating a bowl of canned soup and surveying my progress from top an old steamer trunk when I saw the envelope.

I don’t know where it came from. It must have fallen out of something I had moved. It was slightly yellowed and one corner was lacy with the nibbles of mice or silverfish. The front of the envelope was addressed to The Future Mrs. Saxon. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was Miranda’s.

It was dated July 19, 1989. It took me a minute to remember why she would have been writing such a macabre letter; our marriage was never rocky enough to consider divorce. Then it came to me. The cancer. She fought valiantly against it, and won. My Miranda, who wore makeup and high heels to her chemo treatments, who never once missed her Friday rounds with Meals-on-Wheels. Who insisted on cooking for me, even when she was too nauseated to eat more than a few crackers. When I tried to get her to rest, she would laugh and say, “Jesus, Norm. It’s not like I’m dying!” And she wasn’t. But she had secretly prepared for it, just in case. That was Miranda, ever-practical, and thinking positive at the same time. She always insisted I should remarry if anything happened to her. She made me promise.

Hello,

I don’t know how much you know about me, but Norman has presumably told you some things. We have a lot of happy memories together. I hope you don’t mind if he talks about me sometimes. However, the most important thing you should know about me is that I’M DEAD. This is not meant to be spooky. I never want to be a ghost, haunting your life or Norm’s. I’ve gone wherever it is that I’m supposed to go, and now it’s your turn to be Norm’s wife.

I could tell you what I’ve learned about him, what I’ve learned about myself by being his wife. But those are the kind of lessons people have to find on their own. Besides, you probably don’t need my advice. I could tell you other things, like his favorite meal, his favorite place to have coffee, and the three Puccini arias that always make him cry. But that’s not my territory anymore. Anyway, my greatest hope is that you and Norm discover new foods, new places to have coffee, and experience new kinds of beauty together. I hope his favorite things change.

I am telling you this because I imagine it would be intimidating to follow in the footsteps of a much-loved dead wife, which is what I am. Don’t be afraid to take down my pictures. Get rid of my china. Redecorate the house. Or hell, sell the house and buy a new one together. You have my blessing.

Only one thing will I ask of you. Please, please take good care of my Norm. Well, he’s your Norm now, but take care of him anyway. That’s silly, I guess. You married him so I’m sure you plan to do just that. Norm was the only man I ever really loved, and there was never a single heartbeat that I stopped. He needs looking after- on his own he just kind of swims in circles, like a one-legged duck. Be patient. He will be kind to you- it’s not in his nature to be otherwise. I think you’ll find that Norm is a very good husband. He’s thoughtful and funny and sensitive, although his sense of humor is often a little dark. Oh, well, you already know all that, I’m sure.

Good luck to both of you. You have my best, fondest, brightest wishes for happy, heart-full life together.

Mrs. Miranda K. Saxon

P.S. One word of advice: the snoring is truly astonishing. I always found those little foam earplugs to be quite indispensable.

I must have read the letter fourteen times. It was beyond coincidental that she died precisely ten years from the day the letter was written. That was when I checked my watch, and noticed the date for the first time that day. July 19, 2008. A chill ran down my spine. “Miranda?” I said out loud, half expecting her ghost to materialize from behind a box and shake its head at me. At everything being the way it is.

I did not get drunk that night.

But I did take off my wedding ring. And, maybe because I felt like she was there, watching me, I did not cry.

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Tags: Death, Garage, Letter, Life, Love, Mourning, Travel, Widower