That hat.

He wore it everywhere. 

Mike graduated from the University of Virginia, but he didn’t really embrace being a Wahoo. UVA wasn’t his first choice. He endured it. He was, at heart, a Mountaineer, opting to go to West Virginia University for medical school.

In August, 2017, we watched, shocked, as men carrying torches marched across the lawn – Jefferson’s lawn, sacred ground – chanting “Unite the right!”

That was the night Mike became a UVA alum. We went to Charlottesville shortly after the demonstration. We donated to the Brody Jewish Center. And we went to Mincer’s.

To buy that hat.

When you start going through personal items and Things That Must Be Kept, you’re bound to find a mystery or two. I mean, that’s a major plot point for many a novel, right?

My Mike mystery is an indecipherable code. Only two short paragraphs in one of only two of his notebook journals I’ve found.

I haven’t spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. I’ve spent more time wondering why he felt the need to write in code. Where did it come from? Did he make it up? 

And if so – how freaking smart was he, anyway?

Mike’s faith was never in question, although his presence in church was hit or miss for much of his adult life. In March, 2011, he found a lump in his throat. His ENT specialist suggested he put his affairs in order.

He stopped smoking, updated his will, arranged for a biopsy. And he started attending Ascension Episcopal Church regularly.

The tumor was benign, and was successfully removed. A miracle, he said. He didn’t start smoking again, and he didn’t stop showing up at Ascension, until chemotherapy treatment compromised his immunity. 

I took his place, and was confirmed a year ago. 

In the more-than 25 years Mike and I lived together, his accountant prepared and filed our taxes. Prior to that, I filed my own the old-fashioned way – picked up a form at the post office, gathered documents, completed the form, and mailed it.

He had always hired an accountant.

To be fair, his financial life was much more complicated than mine. And he hated filling out forms.

I pulled the pictured slip of paper from our “Good Things” jar this morning. Last year he finally agreed our tax life was simple enough to let me do them. TurboTax for the win!

I’m so grateful for our friends.

Mike was, too. 

Two of those friends have died since Mike did. I’m a little jealous they all get to hang out, while the rest of us muddle along without them. I mean, I’m happy they’re not suffering. But still …

I didn’t take pictures of everyone who came to see us those last few weeks. I wish I had, but as the saying goes, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

I’ve thanked you all before, and I know I’d leave someone out if I started naming names. You know who you are. Namaste.

It’s been six months now.

I don’t hear him calling for me any more. He’s not waiting for me to come home, to bring him meds or a book or something to drink.

I can donate his clothes. He’s not coming back. He won’t need sun shirts this summer.

Even though he couldn’t eat, I still cook for both of us, when I bother to cook at all. My freezer runneth over with single-serve containers.

He wasn’t going to get better. He wasn’t going to get better.

I know grief takes the time it takes. 

It’s been six months now.

I was going through photos from last year and found this one. Anyone would be able to eat a serving of pasta and not need photographic evidence.

For Mike, though, it was a Big Deal to eat anything, let alone spaghetti with meat sauce. Which is why I took his picture.

He is, in fact, sitting at a table with a plate of food in most of last year’s photos. 

He actually spent more time praying and meditating than he did eating. 

But he wouldn’t have wanted me taking pictures of him working on his spiritual life.