An Honest Photo

 

An honest photo.

Taken in July on the floor of our bedroom in my dad's empty house. The bedroom that was my mother's before me, before I painted the walls dark blue, where I had spent time putting her to bed, sitting with her, talking and massaging lotion onto her frail hands and freckled arms. Now her dresser is in my room in my new home and her jewelry is divided between Rachel and me. Her quilt is stored in a box, her framed photo of her parents in one of my albums, and those clear glass ducks I remember--a set of three, each bigger than the other like patroska dolls--probably donated.

I was alone in the house for the last time. Rather than feeling flooded by memories of her, or memories of growing up, I was overwhelmed by a lingering presence of Dan in the quiet space of each room. 

First there was the kitchen, where he probably spent most of his time! I looked around at the empty counters where he had made his delicious hummus from scratch in the food processor. I liked to take it to my work potlucks for everyone to enjoy. He made zucchini bread in the summer, using vegetables from his garden, stirring up the dough in the big, heavy kitchen aid mixer, making a mess all over the place with the flour. While it baked, the entire house would smell of the fresh loaf and cinnamon. He loved to make several and share them with neighbors. I looked where his bar was, where he crafted cocktails for all occasions...white russians for friends to sip while we sat in the living room listening to records, an aperol spritz or tequila sunrise for birthday parties, an old fashioned for sitting by the fire outside or for those fantasy drafts he researched and prepared for so intently. He would sit at the computer in the kitchen and anxiously await each choice, and groan when he was frustrated. Now I watch Raine do his drafts with his friends and smile at the thought of his father. The kitchen was where he pounded out the schnitzel, the sound echoing to the living room, and where he always yelled to Raine down the hall, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" when Raine's favorite meal was ready.

After the kitchen, I viewed the living room where we sat every evening and talked, watched shows--he had so many favorites I can't even list them, but I'll name a few: The Bear. Slow Horses. Stranger Things. (We even made costumes one year for Halloween. He wore that hilarious bright red sweater with ). Food network competitions and those weird reality shows about people trying to smuggle drugs at airports and borders. Some of these, I eventually was able to continue to watch and others I just can't seem to have the courage. His favorite spot on the couch was well worn in and and often Stormy was next to him or at his feet. We listened to records with the player that was gifted at our wedding, or used one of his many playlists on Spotify on the TV. Zeppelin, The Sea and Cake, Over the Rhine, Jeffrey Martin, Iron and Wine, Van Morrison, Sufjan Stevens. So many come to mind...    

The walk-in closet in our bedroom did me in. I sobbed where his clothing used to be--his button down shirts, worn-out graphic tees, the comfy pajama pants, an assortment of funny socks like the ones with fish or pizza on them, and stocking caps and shoes like his Adidas slides--a style he had been wearing since even before we dated. Everything is now folded carefully and packed in bins I have stored at my new house. I don't think I will ever feel "ready" to let go of them.

In the blue bedroom I remembered reading together in bed, our quiet conversations, and intimate moments lying in bed, clinging to one another in passion or in sorrow for the day we would part. I remembered the final days when he would shower, barely able to stand, and I'd stay by him and then help dry him off, rubbing the towel over his long back, the slim muscles of his arms, down to his swollen feet and ankles. I'd help get him to the bed where I would fit his oxygen cannula on again. I had a hard time getting his socks on but we wouldn't give up. I'd slide a tshirt over his bowed head, over his sloping shoulders and across his sunken chest. We'd get his comfy pants on and his light gray sweater cardigan around his shoulders. I now wear it around the house and feel comforted by its weight and oversized length and smooth, soft knit.

Before I left, I took a photo of my hope; a smile through tears. I don't know what my hope is exactly but I have it. A hope for another day with friends and family, I suppose. A hope to carry him with me every moment and share his legacy of love, kindness, generosity, humor and positivity.

In my new house, he surrounds us with memories, too. Framed photos and trinkets are everywhere--especially snails. The large and colorful painting of the three of us that Dan Johnson made after Dan was diagnosed is above the fireplace. To the left, a stand full of books of poetry and records. There are framed photos of him leaping into the air with his trombone with First Grade Crush, and fishing for salmon in Oregon, and being out in nature as a young boy. The beautiful, green and blue stained glass box that holds his ashes sit atop the stand, with rocks from his spot in the Nenstucca river. In my bedroom, there is a cabinet that holds precious items like our wedding rings, his cologne, his lucky chemo trinkets, and a beard comb that still has wiry brown hair in it. I feel very Victorian in keeping it, as well as wearing a monogram necklace every day that holds some ashes.

I am trying to cook and still yell, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" I have worn in and shaped my spot on the new couch with Stormy next to me or at my feet. Beautiful woods and landscaping frame our house--perfectly there is a peony bush for me (my favorite) and a Japanese maple for Dan...one of his. I am trying to figure out power tools again and all of the little things that Dan did that I tried not to take for granted but probably did: light bulbs, laundry, garbage, keeping house plants alive, weeding and mowing...All of which Raine is learning, too. This year I am decorating for holidays, something Dan loved that I did. Soon I will have a fire in the back yard, listen to the squirrels doing their work in the trees, and maybe catch a glimpse of deer. Dan was once told the deer was his spirit animal. I feel his spirit everywhere, to big and beautiful to be contained to houses, and I keep moving on.