Today was bittersweet.
My decade-plus-long friendship with Peter led to, for the first time, talking to his long-time partner and wife, Susanna. She told me about the final moments—how he chose his date and time to take the death-with-dignity medication. The intimacy of it: their prayers for one another, her heaving a painful sigh at his passing, and his final words—blessing her.
Part of me doesn’t want to wallow in grief, but I fear that if I don’t take time to mourn—to feel the anger so strong I want to grab a cartoon-sized club and smash it against the old oaks—I’ll become numb instead. There’s a helplessness, too, like a brown house spider circling the abyss of a drain.
I’m in the rocking chair on the front porch. Evelyn and Dave are lying in the stand hammock, playing I Spy. Every third pick is mine. I’ve been ebbing and flowing like this all day: one step in hosing down the chicken coop, the next dodging squirt gun blasts, or catching a football with Evelyn and Dave.
But prominent is the news of Peter’s final days. Hearing it from Susana—his wife, his partner, and the caring nurse in his corner—made it all the more lovely. Putting a voice and personality to the woman who held that sacred space with him brought comfort. She shared how he wanted to leave this world “elegantly” and that he knew it was time because there was no more quality. She shared how deeply he respected me. Something she said stuck: “That he chose to let you in as his friend.”
I wonder what he saw in me—what made him decide I was someone to hold close.
A single Canadian goose honks loudly. For a second, I worry the chickens are under attack, but my wires quickly uncross. It’s nothing. Just a goose. Still, part of me doesn’t want to grieve because it feels like a waste of time—or because I don’t even know where to begin.
As Evelyn picked up a hand shovel and headed down the steps toward the sand. Knowing I could use a break, I set my laptop down and got to digging. There’s something about patting and swirling my hands in wet sand that clears away the debris in my mind.
I’m on the hunt for a used treadmill. And not just any used one. I’m looking for a secondhand deal from someone who actually wants it gone—not someone pricing it like it still holds emotional value. I’ve been checking Facebook Marketplace daily, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve shaken my head at a mere 10% markdown on a decade-old machine.
One to-do item that didn’t get done today: pay quarterly taxes. Since Georgia taxes income, I need to set aside 5.49%. But between the confusing Department of Revenue website and my inability to get a human on the phone in under an hour, I bailed altogether. Still, if they don’t get their money, I’ll get dinged with a late fee, so I’ve got to hop back in the queue tomorrow.
Alrighty then. I’m out of here for now, but I’ll be back this way tomorrow.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 