Coming Home
An essay on marriage and loss.
The theater is crowded. My friend Maureen and I file to our seats.
A woman stands on my right. She reminds me of my grandmother. Petite and stylish, with short hair and a wry smile.
She holds a book in her hand. As we wait for the show to begin, we chat about the title, the author.
With a few minutes before the curtain raises, we move on to other topics. Where she is from, her favorite musicals. Abruptly, her expression changes. A confession of cancer, of hospital rooms, of a husband unexpectedly gone last fall.
A widow.
I watch her face cloud, her pain visible below the surface. I think of October, all red and golden leaves, leaving a carpet of confetti on the ground. Briefly, I wonder what I was doing that day.
Just as quickly, my mind wanders to my own husband, firmly ensconced in his own afternoon of patients and fillings. I picture him laughing, a cup of coffee in his hands.
Joe.
The man I said I could never marry, then I did marry, and now, for twenty-seven years, we have been married.
Dental practices. Five kids. Autism.
We’ve built this life, yet somehow, I still feel like we are kids. Imposters who are playing house. I guess you could say I’m still waiting for the grown-ups to show up and take charge.
We’ve left our house together one thousand times together. To work, the movies, weddings, even funerals.
Someday, one of us will walk back through the same door. Alone. Forever alone.
Someday.
When?
I know his face better than I know my own. He is my home. This man. The companion of my heart. No matter how messy the union often is, I wouldn’t know how to begin to live without him.
The lights dim. The curtain raises.
I think of him. I smile.
He is here.
We are here.
For now, that is enough. It has to be enough.
The music begins.
May it play forever.
“How did you decide to start your son on medication? What does he take?”