It Seems I Have My Answer

Dearest Rachel –

It wasn’t until late in the day yesterday that I realized what day it was. The 23rd of June had all but come and gone, and while I’d remembered you and sent a letter going on about the misadventures of the day, I’d forgotten what the date was, and what it signified.

In short, it seems I have my answer as to how long it takes before I stop paying attention to each month since as they pass. Seventeen. That’s how many months needed to pass before the date becomes just another day on the calendar (assuming I’m even bothering to look at one, or some equivalent – there have been times when I was only made aware of the date by which chapter of Proverbs I was reading that day; and with the apparent need to get the car serviced first thing in the morning, I admittedly skipped that habit early on). Or, maybe this was just an outlier, and I was just that much more distracted than most days like this.

I’m not sure what to think about it. There is, after all, the thought that I need to be able to put this behind me in order to recover and move on with my life. At the same time, there’s this nagging thought in the back of my head, asking me “What right do you have to be able to do that? She didn’t,” referring to you. It’s more than just a twinge of survivor’s guilt, despite the fact that I didn’t even head down the hill with the two of you that last, fatal time.

And yes, I still go over that day and moment, wondering what could have been done differently to assure that you would still be here. Not that anything I come up with (on the rare times that I do; not having been a party to the actual incident takes a weight of responsibility for what happened off my shoulders) can change those events, now that they’re in the past.

I still wander through the house as it undergoes its transformation, wishing that I could share my enthusiasm about the changes taking place here with someone (and I’m afraid Daniel doesn’t count, as his condition precludes him from taking much pleasure in any sort of changes, after all). This home, once reduced to master suite, kitchen, dining/family room and the narrow corridors between each of these areas, has expanded to its complete size, and as a result, gone from cozy for two and a child to far too big for a single man and his son. It doesn’t show quite yet, since the crew (of varying sizes) is still working here, but soon, the work will be done, and it’s going to feel that much emptier, even as it’s in prime condition to be shared.

There has been some talk about renting the ‘man cave’ out to Logan for a while, as he’s been asked by his parents to move out and make his way on his own. I suppose he would allow Daniel a social outlet without leaving the house, and that’s a good thing. It would also help out a friend of Daniel’s in an hour of need, and he could serve as an example to him as to how to get out and contribute to society (although whether Daniel would take the hint remains to be seen; to be frank, I’m not betting on that). It doesn’t really help me personally, though.

Indeed, when I’ve asked the folks for their advice, they’ve suggested that, should we take him in, we make it a fairly short-term thing, so that if any prospects actually begin to pan out, I could quickly clear the way for ‘Megumi’ to move in. But with that seemingly becoming that much more remote a possibility by the day, now that I’ve more or less closed out my account with the dating site (not that it was doing anything in the first place, but still…), that seems to be less of a concern all the time.

So few concerns would be concerns if you were still here, honey. So many decisions would be non-issues. Of course, so many improvements wouldn’t be happening, either, so there’s that. But that’s as much a closed door as the closets in the laundry room – to say nothing of the entrance to the bedroom from there:

It’s said that when God closes a door, He opens a window, honey.

As you can see, there are a lot of doors in this picture, and precious few windows.

Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.

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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