My Husband Passed Away and Took the Encyclopedia With Him

Where’s Jon when I need him most?

Not here, that’s for sure.

My husband passed away in February and took the family encyclopedia with him. All kinds of fun facts, handy info, and beloved family stories went with him.

Like:

How do I make a reservation on Airbnb?

How much did our new stone patio cost? And where the heck’s the paperwork?

Where in your office do I find the thriller novel you finished two weeks before you died? The one with the dodgy Secret Service agent?

And how about the one with the dramatic chase scene through the bowels of the sewage treatment plant — did you ever finish it? Do you want it published? Or do I throw it back in its drawer?

He Took the Encyclopedia

Where are you when I need you — like when I want to order dinner at the Himalayan take-out place. Is it the paneer I like? Or the biryani? You knew. I don’t.

You were the repository of important facts and information. (Who assassinated JFK?) But you were also the keeper of some enduring family stories.

For example, what exactly did you say to the five-year-old Peter when he asked why his birth mother had given him up? What did he say? I wasn’t there. I can’t tell that story.

A Frog or a Duck?

As for Christina, when she was born, you said she looked like a frog? Or did you say she looked like a duck?

I never needed to keep track of stuff like that. I could ask you. You were always there to tell the story. To order the biryani. To make the Airbnb reservation.

You had all this info stashed in your brain, and you took it with you when you went away.

Will I Forget Jon?

Now three months into widowhood, I worry that, without Jon’s help, I’ll forget the essential family facts and stories.

I worry that I’ll forget Jon.

Not the big fact of his existence, but the small facts, the gestures, the quirks, the jokes. 

The little things that made Jon Jon. How his voice boomed when he got on the phone with his brother. His posture when he attacked a crossword puzzle. 

The way his upper lip curled over his lower lip when he was having a big thought. (Or was it the other way around? Bottom lip over top?)

How do I hold on to these small things if Jon’s not here to keep them here?

For a nice picture of Jon working on a crossword puzzle go to “Retired Is a State of Mind. Six Ways to Know If You’re There Yet.”  Some thoughts on art at “The Downside of Things Beautiful. From the Mighty Rose to the Humble Daisy.”