“Do you want to come with me?” I finally asked him. Four days, with my family and a few college friends, on the island of Nantucket to celebrate my 30^th birthday.

We sat behind Tiny Pine, our favorite restaurant in Colorado. We were playing Gin Rummy, directly facing one another. I slipped off my Birkenstocks, caked with red dust, and draped my feet over his knees. I caught a draft of Tiny Pine fries, the air warm and dry and Colorado blue overhead. The bartender Jake was John’s friend from AA, and there were some fellow locals I knew from work over at the corner table. My body settled into the warm web of the plastic chair. Jake walked over with an ivory ceramic bowl filled with fries, on the house, looking at me and giving John a wink after setting it down.

John looked down at his cards, “teaching” me how to play. We wagered:

If I win, John walks shirtless into The Black Nugget, the neighborhood haunt for alcoholics. If he wins, we sit at Phat Thai- center table. I stand up, get the restaurant patrons’ attention and tell a terrible joke about a fart a stranger taught him a few years back.

Usually, I never agreed to any sort of bet with anyone.

In between hands I fleshed out the details. He said yes, as of now, with a warmth in his face. There were permissions he needed from his treatment team. This could be disastrous- John was four months shy of a year sober. I couldn’t help my asking.

I asked if he was falling in love with me. He turned scarlet and began to massage my ankles. His face split into a smile- I had never seen him blush before. We were only about a month into our relationship.

I won the last hand, and he stared at me in disbelief. John hated losing any game, of any kind. We scarfed down the rest of our fries and walked around the corner to The Black Nugget. I went in first- John told me he needed a minute to pump himself up. I ordered a tequila soda with a splash of lime, selecting the table I thought was the least sticky. It took him about ten minutes, but he finally stepped through the door, shirtless and determined. The bartender flew from behind the bar to block the doorway and relay their no shirt no shoes policy. I snorted into my drink, wiping away tears I was laughing so hard. So, I thought, he’s a man of his word.

Later that night on our way home we got takeout at Phat Thai, me gloating about my win. With bags in hand, I pushed onto my tiptoes and kissed him. “I’m falling in love with you, too,” I said.

The next morning sunlight streamed in, and we readjusted our entwined bodies on faintly damp sheets.

My eyes cracked open one after the other. I inhaled and scrunched my nose, exhaling and spotting articles of last night’s out to dinner outfit strewn on the chair, the floor, and the lower corner of the bed.

John’s clothes were folded neatly over my bookcase- joggers, gray t-shirt, gray new balances lined up like well-trained puppies waiting for their next command.

I swallowed and tasted traces of pad thai and lime. Usually, I’d jump out of bed in disgust and seize my Crest, but this morning I wanted to let last night linger.

I touched his arm, gently draped across my chest, just to make sure he was real. I dragged my toe along the edge of his calf.

He stirred and interlaced his fingers in mine with a faint squeeze.

In the pause between night and day, house finches were calling for us to wake with them. I could tell John was holding his breath.

He whispered onto expectant hairs on the back of my neck, “I’m in love with you. I can’t get enough of you.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I rolled over to face him, finding his eyes closed. June wind filtered through the screen, brushing the tops of our heads with fingers that said, let this in.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

I let my nose find his cheek.

We rested awhile there.

We were supposed to fly back from Europe tomorrow. The trip we had been saving for and planning for months. Back in December John grinned as I tore open the wrapping paper uncovering the Locals Guide to Barcelona. We took turns walking around my father’s manicured Florida gated community, reading the descriptions aloud together, his arm slung across my waist.

Instead, I’m in New York City, in my childhood bedroom.

It has changed some. The closet has been cleaned out, save for the two modest Bloomingdale’s black dresses I just hung up. My yearbooks and diaries are stuffed into the cabinets beneath the windows.

I lie in bed under the quilt my grandma gifted me for my first birthday in 1993. The quilt is a patchwork of purple and white with animals in each square, notably thinner from 30 years of laundering.

I watch three hours of Gilmore Girls.

I inhale two brimming glasses of merlot.

I eat handfuls of granola after I tell my mom I’m not hungry when she offers a homemade dinner.

The funeral is over. The drama is over. The I’m so sorry, I love you, texts are thinning.

I stare at the stack of books on my bedside table. There’s a John Grisham paperback on top, left by a guest who stayed here one weekend or another, I imagine. I text my Colorado friend Caroline: The after-funeral part is shitty. Caroline was the one I called from Lori’s house. She watched John and me fall in love over the course of last year. I called her before I called my mom. She immediately left work, which was my workplace too. She came over, sat beside me, said nothing but nodded and held me. She slept on the couch and brought me noodles making sure I took at least a few bites. She brushed and braided my hair, refilled my water, and told the outside world John was dead. So hard. Tell me about it. Surreal? Too real? She replies.

I tap tap on the screen- My brain knows there’s so much to live for but I forgot what it was like to live without him. Being around his family made it seem less hard. I have to figure out how to keep going.

Caroline responds instantly. Nodding. I’m not sure anyone figures it out. You’re surviving.

When nothing relieves the pressure of the impending days, I call out to John through tears. Pleading. Come back, please, come back.

I start breathing again. It’s as though someone is covering my feet in soil and unfurling a weighted blanket across my chest.

I go to brush my teeth.

June 5th, 2023

I’m on a date with my dead boyfriend tonight. We make chicken and avocado and sautéed arugula. John peers over my shoulder as I season the dish with garlic powder and asks why I never made this for him. I smile and reply- Because you hated my cooking. On our fifth date I cooked salmon and wild rice for him. He pushed it around with his fork, listening intently to stories about my childhood. I finally noticed there were tiny bits of orange and brown all over the plate, but none had been eaten.

I go to the living room to watch Ted Lasso. John always wanted to watch it, but neither of us had Apple TV.

I stare at the empty plate after a few episodes. I’m starfished on the green carpet my mom carefully selected with her interior decorator to create a chic city library. The apartment is empty. My mom is out to dinner at Elio’s with her on again, off again boyfriend. They invited me, of course. So did Grace to come over and eat takeout and watch Bravo.

But I had a date.

I text Caroline again. The rest of the world and my friends and family have events and partners and children and work to attend to and I’m here alone. I used to love being alone and I still do. When I met John, being alone didn’t feel as lonely. I don’t want to go back to the way it used to be before him.

I flip my phone face down onto the carpet. The richly upholstered chair next to me creeps into my awareness. How the proportion of the frame might compare to the width of his back. What kind of imprint he might make in the Kelly-green striped cushion. Maybe if he were here, I’d be here too.

I’m not sure how long I’m staring, but the stripes start to blend. I squeeze my eyes tightly, like somehow if I open them, I might see someone there.

I pick up my plate- one fork, one knife, one napkin and go to the kitchen to wash up. Standing over the sink I whisper, thank you for being with me.

June 10th, 2023

I won’t find you at the bottom of this wine bottle.

I won’t find me there either.

JW Marriott, Houston, TX

5:00 p.m. The Visitation

That was what Vivie, John’s Mom, had said- “visitation.” I do a quick Google search on my phone and according to my research, there may be a casket there. Or will a funeral home esthetician have fixed John’s bloated, post overdose body with some powder and I will again lay eyes on him? I was too embarrassed to text the O’Sullivans for clarification, or ask what to wear.

I walk down the garish patterned carpet from my hotel room, imagining his hand on my back. What the pressure might be, how he might press his fingertips this way or that to guide me to the elevators. I cut through the red and gold zig zags with a slow shuffle, tucking the room key card into my black leather clutch. The key card says, It’s time to let me go. Quite literally, with big white script and maroon border and the Marriott logo. When the hotel desk manager slid it to me, my heart skipped a beat.

Everything has meaning now.

I never thought I’d be going to John’s parents’ house without him in my shadow.

I take a shuddering breath, close my eyes and step onto the elevator. The doors to the lobby open and live guitar drafts in from down the hall. The check in lady had mentioned something like this. Live music at 5:00 p.m. The song from the fifties is playing, that song I know but can’t index in my brain.

Dream, dream, dream, dream

When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream, dream, dream

When I feel blue in the night
And I need you to hold me tight
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream

I steady myself with a hand on the closest table.

John always had a song he wanted to play for me. He prided himself on his music taste, from underground rapper Westside Gunn to Steely Dan. He came over one night a few months before he died and slipped into bed with me. He played “Don’t Got a Lotta Time,” by Cotton Jones on his iPhone. “This reminds me of us,” he said. He then flipped over and asked me to scratch his back.

I brush my cheeks and adjust my dress, wondering whether I’m wearing the right thing.

A petite, silvery blonde bobbed woman hurries past me then abruptly turns around. “Do you need a hug?” she asks. I nod and she gathers my shoulders and lets me rest my chin on her shoulder. She holds me for the rest of the song. I take a big sniffle, we separate, and I check my phone for the Uber’s ETA.

I arrive at the O’Sullivans stately brick house, with a sprawling, hundred year old oak on the front lawn. I exhale watching the Spanish Moss blowing in the breeze. Once I enter the house, I try and find someone I recognize. There are photos on the dining room table- I spot one of me and John in silver frame. It’s winter, snow covering the ground, and I’m resting my head on his shoulder while he looks at me smiling. My photographer friend asked if she could take pictures of John and me in February to build her portfolio. We joked once that we couldn’t show anyone the photos because it looked like we were engaged.

John’s grandmother Lia, comes around the corner - she’s not wearing black. There is no casket to be found. I blush and retreat to the bathroom, texting my Mom and sister Louise to ask when they are getting there.

When my kin arrive, we three are near matching in black dresses and pearls, the proper New Englander’s interpretation of “visitation” attire.

Over the next hour a flock of ironed summer floral dresses arrive. I wonder if there was a dress code I missed on the invitation.

It’s a flurry of faces and cheek to cheek air kisses. The Chardonnay is flowing and there are competing conversational tones. Quiet empathy and chipper catching up.

When the guests give me a look of pity, I have mechanical explanations.

“He needed to go.”

“He’s at peace now.”

“He was in a lot of pain.”

I glance over my shoulder at the line along the edge of the pool. There’s a parade waiting to express their sympathies to Chris. He had caught a cold. “Not too close,” he croaks while coughing into his handkerchief. About midway through the perfunctory and sincere “I’m so sorry” he turns away and guides them to his garden. Careful to keep a three-foot distance. Tomatoes and squash are taking hold in the June heat. One bed lies empty. Chris motions to that one and makes vague plans for its soil, coughing loudly. “Thanks for coming,” he wheezes. Then the next person in line comes to inspect the tomatoes.

Another coiffed cousin comes up to me to tell me how sorry she is. The Houston summer air is suddenly even thicker. I feel like the lawn is about to seismically separate in two and swallow me whole. I ask Louise if she wants to go upstairs. The last time I was in this house it was Fall, I was with John for his little brother Cameron’s wedding. I was wondering, then, whether his family liked me.

Louise and I ascend the plush carpeted stairs, making it to the second floor. We inch through the hallway leading to his parent’s room. We find John in the photos. There are ones of him on family trips, sprawled on living room furniture, school photos and portraits. There’s one of him beaming as a child, with big cheeks and thick eyebrows and deep chocolate eyes. Happy, he looked happy.

This child is dead, I note.

I flash back to November. I searched these same photos for evidence of its origins. That cursed disease that took him from me. Analyzing his facial expressions posture complexion and weight. I looked for the map that brought him in, maybe to help him find his way out. I searched for the moment he started fading.

June 1^st, 2023

JW Marriott, Houston, TX

9:10 a.m.

My face hollows in the mirror as I paint on thick layer of cover-up. Just a shade too light for my skin tone. I emerge from the bathroom and ask my friend Taylor, a childhood best friend who’s flown from Mexico City whether I look okay. “You look great.” She peeks out from under the covers. “Just make sure you’re not wearing mascara.”

I take one last look in the mirror. My hair is greasy. I should have showered.

Taylor’s going to join us later- there is the burial for close friends and family, and then the service.

In the car on the way to the graveyard, I have a wave of panic after I look in the vanity mirror at my hair. I need dry shampoo. I text Charlotte, another childhood friend who has flown in, and ask if she had brought a can with her. Do you have dry shampoo? I’m so sorry I just feel like a grease ball. She replies, Don’t be sorry! Totally understand let me see what I can do. I flip down the car mirror several more times, finger combing my hair, smoothing it down so maybe it looks styled. I can’t believe Charlotte and Taylor put their lives on hold, even for a day, just to be with me.

We step out of the car, and I ask Louise for her sunglasses. John’s uncle, also named Chris, reaches for me when he sees me freeze in front of the casket. His partner died of a sudden heart attack at age 50. We take our seats on white folding chairs, and I take a seat in the back. After some prayers from the minister, we watch him get lowered into the ground, his casket a rich display of cream roses with his initials, JBO on top. My sister snaps a photo. I imagine what his body might look like in the box. What his face said, what he might look like dead.

In many ways, John helped me dig out of the grave I laid in before we met. I got to level ground. Trusted life again. Then he slipped into my grave.

I step away slowly, wondering if I’ll ever come back to this cemetery. Wondering if I’ll ever come back to Houston.

I wonder what people will think when they see me in the pew. Will I be numb? Will I cry? Will I wail?

Will they think I was pretty enough to be John’s girlfriend?

St. John the Divine Episcopal Church,

10:00 am

We file into the church and settle on another set of white folding chairs in a holding room of sorts. Murmurs abound. John would’ve hated this.

Pitied glances dart towards me.

I appreciate them.

I run my fingers through my hair, cursing again that I should’ve showered.

Weddings, funerals, are the same in many ways. The slight discomfort of what do you talk about? We all know why we’re here. Do we talk about the main event?

Trying to place one another in relation to the wedded.

Or the dead.

My Mom sister and I huddle in the corner. A close friend of the O’Sullivan’s, adorned with black lace, diamonds and a honey covered southern accent hands me a cup of orange juice. “Here sweetie, you need this. We’ve gotta keep that blood sugar up!”

She buried her son four years ago.

Suddenly it’s time to line up to walk into the main area. I am entirely still as I have no fucking clue where to stand. His family members all line up first, and I hear my name out of the air, “Ashley, where’s Ashley?” Chris ushers me right behind John’s uncle.

Do I deserve this spot? We weren’t married we didn’t have children together we were only together a year. What spot did a one-year relationship award? I’m not a widow. They don’t make a succinct label for serious-girlfriend-of-dead-guy.

We snake into the pews and John’s uncle reaches for my shoulder when I pause walking past the pulpit.

The eulogy and readings are lovely. The minister cites the national opioid overdose death toll. Last week Chris asked me if I wanted to speak. He texted: If you’re up for it, you’re welcome to do one of the three eulogies. It may be too hard. I declined- I didn’t know how I’d be that day. Vivie and Chris sit motionless a couple of pews in front of me. Vivie has her eyes closed for the entire service.

Charlotte and Taylor find me after the recessional, with a can of Batiste Dry Shampoo in Charlotte’s purse. She had DoorDashed it to her hotel. It feels good to get something I wanted from someone I love.

Later I learn his family buried him in a bathrobe. This was mentioned of course in Nick’s eulogy, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention. He said when John was a kid and they traveled to a new hotel, John immediately undressed and put on the provided bathrobe and slid into the fresh sheets. He used to do the same with me when he came over to my apartment and we didn’t have plans.

At the country club reception, I can’t breathe and make a beeline for the exit. Running down the stairs out back I stumble out of my leather slides onto the grass.

Taylor and Charlotte hurry behind me, catching an elbow a forearm and hand. There’s the labor scream again. I throw up on the perfectly trimmed emerald lawn, but nothing comes out. I’m grateful for the grass and their hands.

We drive back to the hotel room some hours later. Taylor’s gone. She’s managing an opening at her gallery.

Everyone has to leave eventually. They have paintings to sell and med school to keep up with.

I fling my shoes off at the wall, unzip my dress and fetch the box of pity cookies my mom purchased. I sit naked on the cold tile, staring at the Marriott bathrobe. The cookies are disgusting.

I eat five.

I hear a soft voice, inhuman and so real,

Put the cookies down. Go to bed, my love.

I stand up as much as I can and slip the bathrobe over my frame, cinching it at the waist. I crawl into the crisp white sheets, tuck them around my edges, and bind myself like a mummy.

Fuck you, I whisper to the ceiling.

I stare at the fan, cycling endlessly.

Drink water. One bite. Chew, swallow. Stand.

I’m going to Pilates. I have to do something.

Everything that’s happened doesn’t exist before 9:30am. I call Grace, a best friend since first grade, on my way, winding down the dusty road. Was it dusty? Muddy? It was a road, and I was driving down past the church. I tell her where I’m going and she laughs nervously and says, “Should you be driving?” I consider pulling over. “Probably not but here we go,” I reply.

I walk through the glass door of the studio, everything shiny and just as I left it last week. The instructor is cheerful, affectionate even and greets me with enthusiasm. Do I tell her? She met John once. His 6’ 4” body was a bit too long for the reformer. It was like watching a marionette try and engine itself through the movements. I loved him for going with me.

Halfway through the sliding and putting feet in straps and prancing and pulsing I start to shake. My breath gets jagged. John’s dead. I’m wearing sticky socks and working on my arch support.

Where am I. What am I doing. What happened. And I can’t hear the instructor and look to my neighbor to see how I’m supposed to be arranging my body. Are we lifting circling or rotating. John’s dead. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1- take a stretch. John’s dead.

Here I am doing fucking mermaid stretch while John’s body is on dry ice taking the trip from Colorado to Texas.

5/27/23

My mom flew to my town, packed my suitcase and in a couple of days we are back in my hometown of New York City. I read the draft of John’s obituary on the plane. Nick, John’s older brother wrote it. He asked if it was okay if he mentioned me in it. He asked if it was okay he used my full name. “In the final year of his life, John met and fell in love with Ashley Lamphere. Her empathetic and understanding nature is beautiful to behold, and she was a true gift to John.”

My Mom handed me some tissues and I wiped my nose on my sleeve. I read the words again and again.

They included me. They know he loved me. I was important to him. My Mom interrupts this thought with, “We’ve lost a lot of good men.” She’s referring to my Uncle’s sudden passing a couple of years ago. And my 91 year old grandfather’s death six months before that.I switch off my phone, cross my arms and look out the window.

John had girlfriends before, many. Five in fact. On our first date he counted each with a long, slender finger. He proudly told me that he had never been broken up with. I guess I’m six.

Now I’m at Bloomingdale’s, wide eyed taking in three black dresses. Wondering what to wear to see his body in a box.

Ten days ago, I was picking out outfits for our big trip to Europe. Wondering what chic shoe might be comfortable for long walks through Sintra, what bathing suit suited Barcelona beaches.

Olivia and Grace are with me. Twenty-five years of friendship have prepared them for this. I would be huddled in the corner of the dressing room eating my hair if they weren’t been there.

I clutch the polyester blends and spin to find the dressing room, knocking over a display of Chanel shoes with my elbow. Olivia catches me.

I freeze between two identical dresses, so I ask them which one looks better.

Grace responds to my question with a question, “Which one would John have liked? “The one that accentuates my boobs,” shrugging in the mirror.

Laughs are shallow now. Around the corner Grace finds a mohair magenta coat, 40% off. I grip my shopping bag tightly while she grins and the saleswoman clicks her tongue. She had had her eye on the coat. She can wear it to work, or out to dinner. I watch her make plans as she twirls the hanger around, smiling while she charts the potential of this garment. I stare at the linoleum and hot tears gather around vacant visions of John and I wandering around our little town and slurping up noodles at the new Thai place. I don’t blame her. I had plans too.

5/31/23

My Mom and I fly to Houston. Her boyfriend kindly upgrades us to First Class. I stretch out my legs while the bouncy flight attendant offers me a beverage. I stare at her blankly and look away.

After we land, we go to rent a car. It’s a confusing cluster of collared shirts and earnest tired men pointing at vehicles. After receiving our keys from the counter attendant, we climb into the first mid-size SUV we see. My Mom starts the engine, and I turn on the Bluetooth to play music to distract myself. John’s iPhone pops up as the last connected device in the rental car. A collared shirt man appears with his iPad to scan the code on the windshield. He furrows his brow and raps on the window.

“You’re in the wrong car.”

I’m walking down the edge of the dirt road from my house. The earth is damp. I am aware of each footfall. I make my way to the church at the bottom of the hill. It comes slowly into view- flat and wide, with a playground attached to the side.

I am seated on its steps, and stare at the Black-Eyed Susans carefully arranged around the Cornerstone Christian Center sign. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting. I’m sitting on the concrete beside puddles, eyes on the flowers whipping around with the wind. A bespectacled guy pokes his head out of the front door to ask, “You okay?” I nod half-heartedly and give a soft smile, so he doesn’t worry.

My friend Lori is coming to pick me up. We work together at a healing center/yoga studio/spa/café. We’re going to go to an Al-Anon meeting. John has been missing for five days.

I’ve got limp limbs- a pile of al dente spaghetti on church steps. Thinking hard while the white pansies arranged below the taller flowers start to drown.

I don’t like the phrase “clean”.

The implication of filth when he’s shooting black tar heroin. So, stumbling around looking for peace is dirty?

6:35pm

Lori’s holding my hand in the front seat of her navy Subaru, parked behind City Market. We didn’t make it to the meeting on time.

John’s dad, Chris, is in town. He flew in yesterday from John’s hometown of Houston, Texas, to look for his son. Chris and John’s mom Vivie had called the local police several times, pleading with them to look for their son. They said things like “You don’t understand, he’s a heroin addict, he could be dead.” The police said they couldn’t do anything- John was an adult without a record. Chris linked up with the private detective he hired several days ago. The detective’s last evidence of John alive was a snapshot of his black Audi at the toll in Aurora. He was wearing the outfit I last saw him in. Black tee-shirt, blue joggers. I couldn’t tell from the blurry photo whether he was wearing his glasses.

Aurora, a city just on the outskirts of Denver. John always said he had a “nose” for finding who he needed to get high.

Lori turns off the ignition as soon as Chris O’Sullivan flashes on the screen. I fumble with my phone, gripping its edges. He could still be alive. He is coming back. I will know at least I just need to know need to know someone please give me the answer tell me so I know how to respond. Tell me something so I can understand.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“John is dead.”

“What? How? Wh-“

“They found him in his car at a garage in Aurora. I’m coming to see you tomorrow. We need to sort through his things.” His voice clips and wobbles. “I’m sorry Ashley, I’m so, so sorry. I’ll keep you updated.”

Thunder cracks. Lori’s hand turns white underneath my grasp, and I wail like I’m in labor.

I’ll fall apart this time, I really will. I won’t come back this time.

Lori steadies my hand like only a mother can. We listen to the thunder overhead. She gazes out the window and her tone evens. “That’s what they get to do now. They create the thunder and lightning and the sunshine and rain for us.” She gives me a sidelong glance, “What do you say we go torpedo this meeting?”

I open my mouth to laugh but nothing comes out. Salt water and snot drip into a silent cave. I imagine hobbling into that meeting like an 85-year-old woman, Lori holding my arm, as I affirm all twelve participants’ worst fears.

We drive to her tiny home instead, and I collapse between the couch cushions. Lori sits opposite me, asking who I need to call. I call my Mom, and I call Caroline, a friend from work. My voice is monotone. “John is dead. I need you to come,” I deliver to my Mom. Caroline comes. She gets me home and tucks me into bed, lying next to me until dawn. I don’t remember the rest.

5/24/23

I reread your letters today John. Over and over and over again.

You pushed on- over and over and over again. Picking yourself up, surrendering, believing. Then I’d watch you fade, become frustrated and distant. Maybe no amount of love could save you. Maybe you decided long before we met you were on your way out.

But maybe that’s something I’m just telling myself so I can eat breakfast.

Last September, we wrote letters to one another while you were in treatment.

Dear Ashes,

Hi, love.

As of now, I’m sitting in my (oh so single) room, twiddling the feather you sent me and thinking about our conversation from earlier today. It’s tremendously scary not knowing how/where/what the path I’m currently traversing will eventually look like, but I guess you can find some joy in that as well. If I could see the future details of my life laid out before me, would I really want to see? Even though we’ve only known each other for a short time (relatively), you’re the perfect example of how life can change at the flip of a dime. I never could have predicted that I would meet the love of my life in a sleepy little Colorado town I had no intention of living in – yet here we are.

Just goes to show how weird and wonderful life can be.

Below is my best depiction of a coffee mug. Feedback is always appreciated.

I love you more than words can describe

.

Kisses,

John

_________________________________________________________

Babes,

So lovely seeing your face today. Something happens every time I connect with you – my spirit lifts – and I can ride that high for the rest of the day.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking about the 3^rd Step today (now that you’re in Al – Anon, prepare yourself for my AA diatribes). “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him”: easier said than done. Essentially, I’m being asked to relinquish control of everything I hold dear (family, friends, relationships, finances, etc.) and allow life to play out how it will. Sort of a terrifying concept, considering that we are told since childhood that we are the Captain of our own Destiny.

However, on the other side of that lies a sense of peace I’ve been able to experience only momentarily in my life.

I love you. I miss you. And I can’t wait to be with you.

Kisses,

John

I fold up the letters, sure to crease them in the way he did. My fingers run the crisp edges, like somehow I might feel his fingertips on the paper.

The plate of eggs, salted and peppered, is cold to the touch.

I don’t know where you are.

I was picking out gifts for your parents today, a basket for your mom, and maybe some nice pruning shears for your dad. I saw rose beds at your little brother’s wedding last November.

You were really excited about Book Club. We were going to start Saturday.

We were supposed to go to Europe, you and me. We were supposed to get a Tabby named Nebuchadnezzar and a big Jenny dog with big paws.

We talked about maybe having a farm in Virginia.

I don’t know if all of that still exists. I don’t know what timeline we will choose.

There’s another story running right now while I’m sitting in the wicker chair you carried up the hill to my apartment. It’s the one where you and I go to Europe and spend the summer camping and walking through wildflowers.

The one where we get the cat and the dog and the farm. The one where I walk down the aisle with the bouquet and you promise me you’ll always be there.

The one where I’m lying down, you’re holding my hand kissing my forehead and grinning about what we created together. Warmth spreads across your cheeks as you gaze wide eyed at her then look back at me. I never told you, but I wanted to name our baby girl Daisy.

But we’re here in this one. I’m cold and sitting in that chair. You’re passed out on the floor somewhere with a syringe and a spoon close by going on an adventure in your dreams. I can’t feel you. I don’t know when you’re going to wake up.

But I’ll be here.

I don’t know whether we’ll be together longer in this life. But I’ll never stop loving you. I’ll never stop wanting you to have the most joy filled life with hugs and family and friends and books.

It’s a really pretty picture.

I don’t know whether I’m meant to be in it. I don’t know if being with you helps or hurts. Or maybe it’s both.

It was a really beautiful basket, you know. Midnight with tan trim and a red leather handle. The shears came with a nice sturdy case.

Someone today asked me if I wanted to have kids. I nodded, and she asked if I had a boyfriend. I smiled and nodded again, looking down at her rosy cheeked grandson Finnegan. I looked up and told her I wanted to wait awhile.

At the end of awhile I saw you and me with our own Finnegan playing in Sopris Park.

She walked away and I faded remembering I called you six times and you didn’t call back.

I put the basket and pruning shears back on the dusty shelves.

You’re lying on stale carpet somewhere and I want to wrap you in my arms and tell you everything is going to be okay. Even though I don’t know if it is.

Maybe next week I’ll kiss you on the forehead, heart full with what we created together in this lifetime, then turn on my heel. Or maybe I’ll walk with you on this uncertain terrain. Knowing you’ll drop my hand sometimes. Knowing I might lose you in the trees and just hope they’re keeping you safe.

We were supposed to fly to London in a few days. You’re doing a flying of a different kind, I suppose.

My roommate Taylor told me to lock our front door, just in case you come back high.

I tip toe to the door and pause for a moment, staring at the smooth white latch. I reach forward and it makes a tiny click.

I tip toe back to my room and crawl into bed, rolling to my side to make room for you.

John went missing for five days. I wrote this on the second day of our search.

Keeping this story to myself has been a protective mechanism of sorts. If I were to write it all down and share it here, then it is a story. It is a story that has an ending. It would be proof I am in a new stage in life, ready to sit down at my computer and tell you about what happened after he died. It would be proof I am in the “after” phase, and that he is gone.

I am ready, though, too. When I close my eyes, I am standing in a doorway, with a May breeze rushing through me whispering, It’s time.

When I began practicing energy healing in 2018, sharing my process and internal landscape became a compulsion. Vulnerability felt like a calling. I felt buttressed by the reflections back to me, the responses of “me too” and the many “thank you” texts I received after sharing my tears, wins and ordinary days.

Enter John. My partner who died in 2023 from a heroin overdose. He is not my partner anymore though. Is he an ex? Did we break up? Who dumped whom? Hilarious musings I’ll save for another time. Grief and humor for me are inextricably linked and necessary for survival.

Immediately after his death I turned to social media to share. I desperately needed people. But despite all the calls, texts, and expensive bouquets I received in support, about 6 months after his death I felt terribly alone. I felt like I shouldn’t share anymore because in my nasty imagination there was a girl scrolling with her fresh pink gel manicure and Oura ring rolling her eyes as I posted yet another picture of my dead boyfriend and me gazing at each other. I thought I should be done with grief. And done with sharing.

But something kind of miraculous happened when I stopped sharing. I turned inward and started writing for myself- well for me and John. I knew that one day I would want to share our story, my story of love and loss and rebuilding a new life from scorched earth and ash. Pulling the words away from any sort of public platform gave me time to reshape myself. It gave me and John the space to reconfigure our relationship to one another. Because yes, John and I are still in relationship. No, we are not lovers and no, he is not my romantic partner anymore. But we are comrades and friends through the veil. It took time though to make that transition, to stop calling him “Babe” to his ghost and to decide that I wanted to live.

I’m sharing this story now because it finally feels like it’s not the one I’m living. I entered a different timeline nearly two years ago. I moved to the Hudson Valley, took a job as a preschool teacher at a nature preserve, and decided I wanted to give life another shot.

And naturally, my grief stories will wane. The gift of John’s love and the trauma of his disappearance and death will give way to stories of my choosing life. His presence will become, as it already has, a color brushed over every image, thought, and experience I have.

I’ll be sharing excerpts from my writing here. I hope pockets of my story might give someone the slightest feeling of companionship in their grief.

My hand is on the table, outstretched to yours. Welcome in, friend.