The other day when I had to take the trash out, I treated myself to a handful of my daughter’s Jelly Belly jelly beans. The kids were at their peak of the early evening, the point when all three of their energies perfectly align to result in chaos and noise. Yes, joy is there too, but for the sadness that has recently trailed along, it felt more like a thorn in my flesh than a resounding thrill in my heart.
So I hoisted out the trash bag, jelly beans in my pocket, and I rolled the garbage can to the corner. I took a few minutes to stand outside under a brewing thunderstorm sky. I could see the kids through the living room window, jumping at each other with their wooden swords in hand. I couldn’t tell who played the role of bandit or savior, but I could also see it didn’t matter; they were happy.
And then Eric walked in the room. I watched him lean on the doorjamb, cross his legs, and fold his arms. His face wasn’t clear through the window, but I could make out his voice, warning Sam to not hit Charlie. Archie jumped toward him, sword out, but Eric blocked his blow with a quick grab at Archie’s waist. They ended up on the couch, Archie’s squeal of laughter inviting his brother and sister to join the attack. All four of them wrestled, but I could see Eric’s moves were cautious and contained, careful to not expel too much strength on small people. When he stood, the kids fell off, unable to hold him down. He scratched Sam’s head, gave Archie a gentle push back, and tugged one of Charlie’s piggytails. His kids. His babies. Growing up and growing fast. Knowing joy in the middle of deep pools of heartache.
I finished the jelly beans as a drizzle began. I knew I had to go in–a swordfight could only yield no casualties for so long–but I didn’t want to face the reality.
We’ve come so far in the last three years. The kids bounce through their days like pinballs ricocheting toward their final rest, and I am the one they call “home.” At certain times, though, I can’t reconcile his death with my life–and how much more still remains to live without him here.
This is that time. When the space in the bed next to me is too cold to make sense. When the kids shine too bright for me to believe the darkness they have survived. When songs in church talk about an empty grave, but they’re not talking about Eric’s.
The rain intensified as I sat on the edge of the porch, my pockets empty of everything but stories I wish I could share with my love. I know he would be so proud of us, so in love with us. I imagined him coming to sit next to me, putting his arm around me. He’d brush the hair off my cheek, ask, “You ok, glitterbug?” and I wouldn’t have to answer. He had a knack for knowing his people.
Eventually a small face appeared at the back door, and Sam beckoned me inside. I knew I had to go. There’d be a casualty if I didn’t.
a scribble of jo 