Something New

We were supposed together grow grey and old. 

Each wrinkle we show, patio story gold.

A million stories kept and told.

But now I see new wrinkles and stories untold. 

I could sit with another and find a new hand to hold.

This, today, might fit the mold.

Your hand it can never be, your hand somehow I must set free.

Remember this my sweet Ladybug, Michelle, this new hand you see 

Will never hold the love I have for thee.

What do you think?

I have written so many notes to you and today I wondered, if you could write one to me, what would it say? Would you tell me you love me? You’ve had enough of my antics. It’s time to move on. I think I am only viewing this from my perspective - which is very self-focused.

Now that Michelle is gone, I cannot ask her “How do you feel?” Is this a fantasy or is it reality. We lived, we loved and now it is a memory. How to think of me would thee? Then and now.

I saw this picture today. Your smile, it was infectious. Christmas eve it was. You were happy. I cried. Nose running cry. I miss you so much. Keep looking out.

5 - more - minutes.

I'm an expert, of course

I needed a culvert. I hated the ditch in my front yard, and I wanted to get a culvert to match the one under the driveway. This was no small project. Installing a 30-inch culvert the 40-foot span of my yard was definitely going to need a backhoe. I ordered the culvert and paid them almost a full military paycheck for it. I set up the rental for the backhoe and found it was much cheaper to rent it for a long 4-day weekend. 

I remember the rental place asking me if I knew how to use a backhoe. Those of you who know me, know what my answer was. I was an expert at it. I knew exactly what I was doing, I just needed a slight refresher, and it would be like riding a bike. After bringing it home, it took me about 4 hours on the machine to figure out how the controls all worked and about the same amount of time to feel comfortable digging and using it. I eventually got my culvert installed and only had issues connecting it to the existing culvert under the driveway as it was not a perfect fit. Nothing a sledgehammer couldn’t fix!

I invited my new girlfriend, Michelle, down for the weekend to spend some quality time with me. She also helped me do some gardening and such. I already had the culvert installed but the backhoe sat there vacant. I was itching to get on it and “play.” I came up with a plan to raid some trees from the adjacent vacant lot.  A backhoe was probably not the best equipment to root a tree with, but it sure seemed like a great idea at the time. Michelle was skeptical but stayed quiet. I was the “new” guy, and she didn’t want to run me off with her opinions just yet. 

I found a few suitable trees and started digging. “This is going to be easy” I thought. The trees were coming out of the ground without any resistance. I was getting really good at working the backhoe and seemed to get the trees (weeds) out of the ground in no time at all. Michelle marked out the perfect spot in the yard for me to start digging the hole for the new tree. I drove the bucket into the ground and scooped out a large bucket full of dirt. Michelle was there to guide me as to where I should put the dirt. She pointed to her left and softly spoke, “Over there would be perfect” she said. I started to move the bucket to the left but to my surprise, and Michelle’s, the bucket jerked suddenly and quickly to the right. Michelle dove to the ground. I jumped off the machine knowing I just killed my new girlfriend. I expected to see blood everywhere. 

Michelle slowly looked up at me and smiled with her high cheeked dimple and said: “Where did you learn to work a backhoe? Maybe I should take over the controls for you.” Somehow, I did not hit her. Her quick reactions and a lot of pure luck saved me, and her. 

I don’t think we did much else after that. I covered the hole and parked the backhoe. I was thankful for my time with my new girlfriend, and ever so happy I narrowly escaped sure tragedy. 

A Different Perspective

I bought new shorts recently, a size 32. High school weight. I told the store associate that I dropped 4 pant sizes because I lost my wife. She mentioned something about a divorce, and I thought, “I wish.” It struck me suddenly, how horrible to say I "lost" her. I should never describe it as a loss. She isn't a set of keys. She isn't my favorite coat or hat when the first frost hits.

Michelle is living on in the memories we have made, so I have not lost her.

She never fought, lost, or succumbed to cancer. She never gave up. Those words make it sound like she didn’t try hard enough. Our 4–6-month prognosis was a glorious 16-month life journey.

She didn’t recently pass. She isn’t a car on the road. She isn’t a ticket to get in a theme park.

Remember this, she loved her family. She loved her grandchildren, all of them. She loved Christmas, the 4^th of July, and her birthday. These were times when she could see her boys’ joke around with each other and her grandchildren play. She loved life and lived.

She isn’t an angel looking down on us and she isn’t in a better place. If she was, I would be there with her. There would be no better place for her than right here with her family.

She lived, she died. Now we remember and love her.

Contradictory to my last post? Maybe, but maybe in line too.

The deal

The phone rings and I hear the sound of muffled tears. “Brian?” the light soft voice speaks. “Thank you.” The voice on the other end started to quaver as she stammered to get her words out. “We just signed a very high profile deal we have been working on for months and I have felt Michelle with me the entire time.” Hannah continued slight mewling as she described almost losing the deal a mere 2 weeks ago but feeling Michelle’s perseverance and presence hold true. “You were my first call, Brian” she cried. “Michelle was an amazing role model I will always look up to. Channeling my inner Michelle is a common occurrence. I loved her and miss her so much, she is still so present in my heart.” 

I was driving and needed to pull over to the nearest gas station. My tear-filled eyes made it difficult for me to see. I cried for several minutes in the parking lot before gathering my composure and continuing my drive. It was a tranquil drive back home to my empty house. Not sad, just a sense of absence and barrenness.

Congratulations Hannah on your accomplishment. Well done. We love you!

Brian and Michelle