The List

It’s strange to think that someone’s whole life can fit in a few medium sized Home Depot boxes. Especially when that person is my wife. She cannot be categorised or defined. She cannot be described. Yet all of her now sits before me, neatly packed away.

When I look at these boxes I don’t see the odd assortment of things the sorters at the thrift shop will see. I see the vibrant, wonderful women I have been fortunate enough to share my life with. I see her laughing as she lugs her suitcase up a hill on our honeymoon. I see her holding our children in the early hours of the morning, tired but never tiring.

I see the daughter, the lover, the friend.

I see her on her death bed.

The end is coming and I want to be ready for it. She has always been a practical woman and that is why I am “getting her affairs in order” now rather than after. Truth be told I don’t know if I could do it then. Right now these are still her things, any tough decisions are hers to make. There’s a degree of separation that makes things easier, practical. After they would be my things. The decisions mine as well. She doesn’t trust me to be objective enough to make the right ones.

She’s probably right.

I don’t want to let any part of her go.

I rest a moment. The house is silent as it has been ever since she went into care. It used to be so full of noise. Can houses miss people too? It feels like ours does. It doesn’t feel right here anymore.

I imagine I can hear her calling out to me. It used to annoy me but now it is all I want to hear. I wish she was downstairs, rolling her eyes at some chore I haven’t done properly.

Practicalities can only occupy ones mind for so long. Sooner or later reality breaks through. I am about to lose my best friend. I am sad. Sad beyond measure.

Hollow.

Why is it only after that you realise what was?

She has given me so much.

I only wish I could give her more.

The man behind the counter is the same age as our son, Paul. He looks through the boxes with a clinical air. He doesn’t know me but he knows what these boxes represent and he is respectful of that.

I want to keep more but am under strict instructions. She wants it given away and so it shall be.

The man hands over a small black book he has plucked from amongst the items.

This looks like a diary, he says. You might want to keep it.

I nod and clutch the book to my chest. A small piece of her. I’ve never seen it before but now is not the time to look at it. Not in front of him.

He begins to close up the boxes. I reach out and he stops. Just one moment more. He waits. The box I am touching contains a vase and I draw it out. It was her favourite. We bought it at one of those country road antique centres out in the middle of nowhere. I always thought it was a bit ugly and told her several times to throw it out. She’d always laugh and say no. Now she has told me to throw it out and it is me. saying no. I want it and so I take it.

The man is waiting. He looks at me and I nod.

The lid of the box is closed. It is done.

It is a book of dreams. A book of hopes and aspirations. Aspirations for her, for me, for our children. Much of it was written before I knew her. It describes what she wished to achieve in her life. To her credit much of it she accomplished.

A life well lived.

But there is one thing she did not manage to achieve. In the book I find a list.

She wanted to see the world.

Page after page is dedicated to places she wanted to go, sights she wished to see. We had never really had the means or the time for much travel. We travelled of course but I preferred to stay home and financially that was really all we could afford. The odd week away here or there. A trip to the sea. Reflecting back on it now I believe they were the times she was most happy.

I wish I had realised this.

I wish I had taken her travelling more.

I am sorry, I say.

Whatever for?

As ever her eyes are kind. When she should be the centre of attention she is still making others her priority. My heart breaks a little more. I will never be as good as her.

I tell her I have seen the book, her dream to see the world and how I wish we had done it. How I wish things could have been different and we could have done the things she described so eloquently on those small, lined pages. She listens, her smile soft, her face serene. When I am finished she takes my hand and tells me she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

I believe her.

She is gone now.

I move through the days like a wraith. Yet again practicalities protect me from reality. A funeral, people I haven’t seen in a long time, sympathies expressed. It is only temporary though. Before long they return to their lives and I am left alone. Alone with my memories.

I don’t know what to do.

I am lost.

I feel a freeze coming, like the ice on a lake, moving slowly towards the centre. Grief is consuming me.

I am afraid.

I torture myself with the wish that I could have time over again. Do things differently.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Her words echo and as much as I try to draw comfort from them I cannot. I know the list of places in the book by heart. I have seen pictures of them at the library. I try to place her in those scenes. To see her seeing them. To see that sparkle in her eye I love so much.

It is torture.

I don’t know what to do.

There is nothing I can do.

There seems to be nothing left, nothing but time. Time to wait until I am with her again. That makes me sad.

I ask her to help me from wherever she is.

I tell her that I miss her.

I tell her that I love her.

Mr Clark?

I don’t recognise the voice.

It’s David. Paul’s friend. I was at the funeral.

A faint face comes to mind but I don’t really know him. Did he go to school with our son? Does he work with him? I don’t know why he is calling.

I am calling about the vase.

The vase is on a table by the window. It is where she always put it. Sunlight filters through the thin curtains and illuminates it like an actor on a stage.

Yes?

Well it’s just…

He is uncomfortable. Awkward.

I know it must have great sentimental value but…well Paul said you were having a hard time…financially that is and well…you may not have realised it but that vase is quite valuable, twenty or thirty thousand. It could help.

The tickets are safely inside my brand new passport, sitting on the table beside the little black notebook and the small silver urn. I can’t help but smile.

It is all paid for, my trip.

Our trip.

We are going to see the world. To cross off her list.

Together.