A Kiss Atop the Lid

Dearest Rachel –

I don’t know if you remember that scene in Tim Burton’s Batman Returns where Serena Kyle enters her apartment with that stock line, “Hi honey, I’m home!” followed by a quick beat, whereupon she adds, “Oh, yeah. That’s right; I live alone.”

That’s what it’s like to come home these days. It doesn’t help that, in the console between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s, I just found a scrap of paper where you were writing down our odometer readings before leaving for, and after arriving at camp (to determine the mileage for tax purposes) that fateful day.

I miss having someone to come home to, someone who would greet me at the door with a kiss and a “welcome home, dear.” I know that Daniel is here, but it’s not the same thing. Besides, he’s upstairs in the bath, preparing himself, as we intend to go over to the folks as we do on Thursday evenings.

It’s gotten to the point where I find myself walking into the sunroom, where your urn rests on the coffee table, and give it a kiss on the lid. It’s all I can do.

And I hardly need to tell you that it’s not the same.

I don’t remember if it was as you let go (or as I let you go), or if it was after you were gone, but I did make a point of giving you a kiss before leaving what was left of you so the care of the hospital staff and the organ bank. You were cooling off already, and tasted of iron from the blood seeping from your mouth. In a way, the urn isn’t far off from that experience; steel may taste a little different, but the coldness is still there. Indeed, it feels significantly chillier than room temperature. I’m in no danger of getting my lips stuck to it, mind you, but it’s still not particularly pleasant.

So why am I doing it, especially since I have not made a habit of it all this time?

I really couldn’t say. It’s just that sometimes, I really miss being able to kiss someone hello, and this is all I can do about that.

I wish I had more to say about today; like the sign I’m trying to put together to cheer on Erin and the other runners, or the progress being made at both the church and camp on finances, or any one of a number of little things that are going on in my life right now. But right now, as I walk in the door of our home – which is no longer “our” home – this is all that I can think about.

I miss you honey, and I wish you were here. I know you’re better off where you are, and I know it’s selfish of me to want to tear you away from that. But, here we are – or, more to the point, here I am.

Maybe things will be better in another hour, another day, another week. But for now, I just thought I would write you and let you know… that I miss you.

Be well.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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