The night you came home with the mattress set on top of your Jeep,
Like a romantic novel set on a snowy Christmas Eve.
I lit a lantern in the window,
I didn’t know then, Love, that it was our last Christmas together.
I only thought of you and our boys in the car, tired from hunting elk and a trip
1700 feet down in your silver mine—four-fifths of my family.
I only knew you were safe.
Where to start
I’ve been putting off writing here for a long time. It’s been over two years, not that I haven’t been writing, giving talks, but so much has transpired. But I must say something: this Halloween it will be 25 years since my husband, Rolf Oakley, suddenly passed away. How does one mark a quarter of century?
I met a woman once, a Navy wife, a survivor of Pearl Harbor. Rose was her name. She was 85 years young. She had lost her husband at the same age I did– 55. I was so new at widowhood that I asked how she did it, how did she hold up for 30 years? I couldn’t imagine. She said she found a way. LIke me, never married again, but she found joy somewhere.
So here I am, almost there. 25 years in.
Looking back, I can say that writing saved me and I think Rolf would be proud that I got 6 novels out, (working on a 7th), 4 novellas, numerous essays published, library tours, and talks on Zoom across the world. It’s been good, but sometimes, it doesn’t take the ache away. The missing. The sadness that he never knew his grandkids, saw his sons successes. I miss the camping on rivers, him fishing, the hikes, the books reading together. 25 years. A quarter of a century is a long time, but some days a total surprise how quickly it went.
The other grief
Losing Rolf on Halloween was hard. It was at first something I dreaded every year it came around. It always started with the anniversary of 9-11 as it was the last trip we did together despite the terror of the days that followed. A count down of sorts with the various things we did followed as I went to a writing conference, he golfed. Then came our sweet anniversary the night before he left on a bird hunting trip with one of our sons. We celebrated with wine and food at a special event put on by a local store. It would be our last. Three days later, he came home and collapsed a day later.
Every year, I went through the motions of getting candy for Halloween when I just wanted to be somewhere else. Yet children get such a joy out of it, so I have learned to think of it as All Souls Day, the Day of the Dead. I have two souls to look after now. I lost my youngest son two summers ago. Some days, it’s unbearable, but at least I am writing again.
Like Rose, I soldier on.
Rose lost a grown child, too. Silently, we have been on this journey together, though she is long gone. So I will put out my candy and greet the kids at the door. I might go off and eat somewhere later on. I’ll try not to cry too much.