Rudderless

This is quite long. I just have to get it if me otherwise I'd keep it bottled up and that won't end well. My wife died. This is the first time I truly acknowledged it. I never pretended that she left me or that I left her. I never pretended that she is just somewhere far away. But somehow, for the past 12 years, I never connected the words “died” or “dead” with her. In my mind and when I refer to her, it is “lost my wife.” Typing those words hurt like hell. It brings a heavy finality. She is not just gone or lost but dead. She’s not coming back. And like the wedding vows we made—till death do us part—she has parted from me and I from her. I acknowledged that the woman I love is dead. Now what? Continue living, some might say. It hurts to look at her. Not through pictures. I made sure that photos with her on them were… disposed after her funeral. I may be a monster by doing that; I acknowledge it. It’s no excuse, but sometimes, grief makes people do silly things. Like I said in my first post, my two sons are living reminders. The eldest is now 24 and he has her eyes. Green with hints of blue. And like his mother before him, those orbs can blaze like Greek fire or—as my youngest calls them—Avada Kedavra eyes (apparently that’s a Harry Potter thing). The last time I saw those eyes blaze with fury was years and years ago, when he was in high school. I think he was telling me to actually buy something and not ask my aide. As anybody can guess, that did not go down well. He was punished. The next time I saw those eyes, the fire was gone. They were dead, glassy, and resigned. My son works with me now and he is very polite. Painfully polite. He addresses me as “sir” at work. I told him he can call me Dad, since everyone knows who he is anyway. But all I got was “The training from HR said it’s not proper to be familiar with the boss, sir.” Might as well be talking to a soldier. When he visits on weekends, I notice that he calls me “Dad” when his younger brother is around. But he slips back to the military-like “sir” otherwise. My youngest is 12; he looks like his mother. Looking at him brings so much pain. I can manage a meal with him, but I look at his forehead when we have to talk. And even that is minimal. I do not know anything about him. I remember the baby that my wife and I used to chase around the house (he hated getting dressed and preferred to be in his diapers only). I know nothing of the boy he’s grown into. I am flying blind. I do not know what to do from here. I do not know how to talk to my boys and tell them I acknowledge their mother’s death now. Denial is over. I’d ask my wife, if I could. She’d know what to say (after perhaps an earful). But she’s not here. My wife is dead.

We met in college. The place we were eating at was quite crowded. There were no empty tables, so I asked if I could share with her. She said yes. It was, as they say, the rest is history. We got talking and found out we went to the same university. She had beautiful green eyes. They were warm and kind, but could turn into Greek fire if provoked. Her eyes were the ones that first drew me to her. I could get lost in them. She used to catch me staring at her for long periods and laughingly close my mouth because “it’s rude to stare, you know.” When she would stare at me, I felt like she was looking past my face and my appearance. She was looking into my soul. I could not hide much from her. Saying I’m fine my darling when I come home from the office did not stop her from getting the truth out of me. She had this look in her eyes, she would stay quiet and join me in my study. The way she would cock her head to the side. And before I know what happened, I am telling her what really did go wrong. This person I met is stubborn as a mule (“Sounds like someone I know” she’d say). The day I lost my wife was a normal one. Our eldest was sick. We needed to bring him to the doctor. I offered to go, but she said SHE will. I had just gotten well from being ill myself a few days ago, she said. And our baby (the youngest) was in a “dad only” phase and was clingy to me. Her eyes turned into Greek fire and I knew not to argue. So I dressed my glassy-eyed son and guided him to the car. Later in the day, I got a call. There was an accident. He made it, she did not. The days following her funeral were a blur. The casket was closed. I never opened it. Not even to let my sons see their mother one last time. I did not want them to see her cold and lifeless. Or perhaps I did not want to see her cold and lifeless. Staying at the house we shared for years was painful. I saw her everywhere. The color of paint was her choice. The desk in the corner that we bought. The chair she loves to sit in. The bedroom with her vanity. I moved my family to a new house, hoping that we—more I—will be able to move on. But pieces of her still followed. My eldest son’s eyes. The baby who looked like her and who would not remember his mother. I concentrated on work. It was—is—my refuge. I have not visited her grave since I organized the headstone. I drive up to the cemetery alone, but parking my car is all I can do. I cannot open the car door without becoming a gibbering wreck. It was always, “Next time I’ll get out.” But I always could not. Over time, it became easier to bury her twice. First under the earth, and then in the deepest recesses of my brain. Ken