One Blink

“My dad loved my mom so much,” she said.
Our oldest, tears streaming down her face.
Nodding in my direction, capturing my gaze,
our hearts tender and tight.
There was standing room only - hundreds,
and she courageously spoke in your honor.

Yes, you loved and adored me,
through and through.
I almost have no words left.
I must pause in your emptiness.
Give a moment of silence. Here. Now.

Three years. It has now been three years.
Today.

I breathe you in as warm tears well up
in the corners of my eyes.

One blink and one will fall.
One blink and our thirty years together
run down my cheek.

Love, adoration, devotion…
blinking, blinking, as if trying to capture
the snapshots of our life.

The O’ Club.
The glance in the mirror to make sure your hair was in place.
Your old, trashy Buick with fast food bags scattered across the floor boards.
My mom and Alex waking to find you asleep on our couch.
Danielle and Brian, our practice kids.
Your bomber jacket.

Moving to Davis - that incredible heat.
Baxter.
Baxter's constant barking and spraying him with a hose.
My design projects and all your help. Thank God for your carpentry skills!
My graduation from UC Davis.
The Whole Earth Festivals.

Your proposal – it was at the Red Lion in Sacramento, NYE 1991.
A year of wedding planning.
My pickiness and your ease.
That long, luscious walk down the aisle. It was our 6-year anniversary.
I almost sobbed uncontrollably.
Your encouragement in whispers to calm me.
The mix-up of our rings.

On-target pregnancy – the love so pure and magical, how could it not be miraculous?
The blooming nine months, your hand cradling my belly.
The drive - you trying not to panic - up 113, to a beautiful, fast, natural delivery.
Holding Presley for the first time.
You bathing her.
You carrying her - always, ever fearful of putting her down.
Dancing with her to tender lullabies.

Another spot-on pregnancy.
Your concerns of a home birth.
The moment we found out the baby was breech as I labored.
Your courage to hold us as we birthed Landon safely at home, butt first.
Your protective instincts now doubled.
Our new-used minivan - green, your favorite color.
Landon’s first word: Dadda.
The move to the country house between Davis and Winters.
Riding on your dad's lawn mower to clear the long grasses on our acreage that first spring.
The joy of your hands in the earth, tending to your large garden.
The tomatoes - oh, those tomatoes!

The mistimed pregnancy.
And your concern when my water broke six weeks early.
Our trip to the hospital, kids in tow, our moms and your dad meeting us there.
The ultrasound. The discovery of two babies.
Your whitened face and deep concern as they prepped me for a C-section.
You at my head, telling the doctors, “She wants to see her baby!” as they tried to hurry away with Baby A.
The delivery of Baby B… both girls.
Our elation, shock, and jumble of emotions.
The naming of Babies A and B - Kendall and Delaney, and their preemie selves added to our nest.

And these blinks are only our first fifteen years.
I want to blink past the next chapter, this period - our darkest.

Your nervous breakdown, and the doctor that gave you Klonopin.
The spiral, the pain, and you searching for your footing.
Our move to the foothills, that first house and all the chaos.
The back pain of bulging discs - shattering under the weight of you as provider.
Your plummeting self-esteem, the barrage of new prescriptions.
The rehabs. Your efforts and demons battling for your sanity.
Our children growing, in spite of your dive into the shadows of your soul.
You showing up anyway, again and again.
Our separation. Your dedication.

Yes, that adoration and devotion never wavering as you lost your footing, holding on by just your fingertips.

More blinks... let's blink past to our reunion.
Two more homes we can blink through as I was essentially without you in them.
My best friend - fading - an uncertain pathway, and all the anger that clouded my visions of our fairytale.

That second DUI that forced your final recovery.
Your willingness to return to yourself, to us.
The deep, earnest work you navigated through.

Our desperate move to Colfax, reunited, but under the duress of foreclosure.
Rebuilding. Sobriety. Trust.
Our full house and a new garden.
Your dedication to building fires to keep us warm. To harvesting the garden.
All the sports.
Swimming - you acting as timer.
Basketball - you running the shot clock.
And that booming Dad voice encouraging faster, stronger, and to win!
The pride of winning!
And the consolation of the losses.
Holding our athletes through their tears and disappointments, your words rebuilding their confidence.

Again, I must pause as I recognize the approach of your diagnosis.
No more blinking. We must witness this mindfully… together.

Your travels to the Bay Area to keep an income.
The carpools that demanded more miles.
Our family trip to Omaha for Olympic Trials.
Our mile-hike to Hanging Lake.

Let me savor this for a minute longer because you were still so strong and healthy.
A sacred blink.

Your mentioning of noticeable weakness... difficulty with your legs.
My brushing off your hypochondria.
The doctors visits.
Your inherent worrying.
My belief in, “It'll all work out.”
The drive to UC Davis Emergency in search of, “What the fuck is going on?”
The tests. Your bravery through the spinal tap and EMG.
The ALS.
My pleading that they test you for Lyme.
Three years.
Instead of Lyme tests, the doctor said you probably had three years to live.
My instant calculation told me you'd make it to the twins’ graduation.

Father's Day weekend and our last family trip together.
Your struggle to climb the stairs in the offered beach condo, and then across the menacing sand to our spot by the oceanside.
The photo of you with the kids.
The photo that was used for your fundraiser.
The hundred or so who attended, donated... and the music.
You loved the band, yee-hawed from your wheelchair that was just purchased from a thrift store that day.
Just in case.

And so many friends.
So many hands, hearts, minds gathering around our family.
The dishes they washed, the meals they brought, the carpools they drove on our behalf.
Money donated. Loved poured.
And so, so many prayers.
As Callie nestled under your bed for protection.

But it wasn't three years.
No, that year from diagnosis to death was just a blink.
In there was our 25th wedding anniversary.
We would not make it to our 50th after all.
You would not meet your grandkids, which pained both of us.
“I wanted to meet our grandchildren,” will haunt me through each of their births.

I must stop now.
The measuring of each moment
isn't possible.
No matter how many poems or lines
or stories I tell.
No matter how many photos I hoard
or videos I create.
The songs that touch a variation of our story
cannot fully capture us... or reveal
the depth of my love and loyalty
or your adoration and devotion.
​
Instead, they live in me somewhere.
And on days like today, they well
to the surface and pour from my being
with every blink.

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