A Month

Feb. 13^th 

On Monday evening we went over to Chris’. It was our monthiversery, our monthly commemoration of the 10^th, the day on which we got married. Normally we do something like go out for supper; this time B. suggested we go to a movie. I just couldn’t summon up the will, though, even though I am much more of a “movie person” than B. and would normally be delighted by such an offer. I couldn’t celebrate; all that was on my mind was the fact that it was a month since my dear friend died.

A month—not terribly long. There had been times in our friendship when I would be away for 3 weeks or so. So we had spent nearly that amount of time away from one another. I can imagine, then, that this is just a little bit longer of a separation than normal, that the next phone call or e-mail could come at any time. Yes, I can imagine that.

So I was in no frame of mind to celebrate 43 months of wedded bliss. I apologized to the ever-understanding B. and suggested we might visit Chris, which is what we ended up doing, board games in hand.

Chris told us he had been busy with the final arrangements with the funeral home. He had brought K.B.’s ashes back to their place. I was riveted by this information. K.B.’s ashes were here? My brain tried to figure out a way to think about that. A weird feeling of dread—there are human remains in this house!—was rapidly succeeded by a need to feel that this was consoling: K.B. was here.

And then the realization set in: the physical remains of K.B. being at the house no more meant she was present than it might have meant she was at the funeral home, when I saw her at the viewing. She was not in the coffin; she was with us in the love and support we were able to give one another. And the same was true on Monday when we were at Chris’.  She was with us when B. and I came together with Chris and his daughter and engaged in one of K.B.’s favourite activities: games.

I experienced another moment of hesitation when we entered the dining room to sit down to play. I was having a flashback to the only time previously B. and I had played board games at their house. It was Sept. 1^st. K.B. had made the most amazing chocolate chip cookies; I begged her for the recipe (sadly, I hadn’t gotten it from her before she died). We played the Great Dalmuti, Apples to Apples, and the Awkward Family Photos game. At one point I talked to K.B. in the kitchen about my cat’s health problems (“Am I talking way too much about how constipated my cat is?” I asked her. “No, I’d tell you if you were,” she replied.)

On Monday night I sat on the same side of the table. I could see some of her collection of ornamental teapots on the shelves of the wall unit across the room. On top of the wall unit was a book I had loaned her before her wedding, My Dress, a collection of women writers’ stories about their wedding dresses. And of course, all the games. Chris hardly needed to say most of them were hers. What a wonderful dowry to bring into a marriage—board games!

It was delightful to be with Chris and his daughter and to lose ourselves in efforts to learn a new game or in the enjoyment of playing an old familiar one. But it was still hard. I thought, “How can it be that she won’t be walking around the corner from the kitchen into the dining room with a plate of toothsome delights at any moment? How can it be?”