From a few years ago,
my move back to Seattle…
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Shopping at Woodman’s in Madison, my main grocery store since we moved here 18 years ago, sadness was stocked on every aisle. These are the crackers my wife liked, and here’s her favorite soup in a can, and there’s the shampoo she liked. I know exactly which shelf everything’s on, because she often accompanied me to this store, to that shelf… to every shelf…
And to the streets and parks, theaters and restaurants all across this city. This city I’ll never see again.
on old index cards
To my wonderful wife I say: Life will be less without those reminders of you. Without Madison, the place we called home. Thanks for all of it… but there’s somewhere else I need to be, for the last few chapters of my life.
♦ ♦ ♦
Clearing the clutter and packing for the move to Seattle, my target timetable is one room emptied per week. That’ll be leisurely enough that it won’t make me too sweaty and stinky, won’t overflow the building’s dumpsters, while still allowing plenty of breaks in my recliner, on my way away from Wisconsin.
Most of my too-much-stuff will be tossed or donated or left behind. I am not shipping all these fake-wood shelves across the country, nor my wife’s cookware that I never use, the spare refrigerator, the clothes that don’t fit, the rickety desk I never sit at, or the bed I haven’t touched in a year cuz I sleep in the recliner.
♦ ♦ ♦
My wife had hundreds of books, and most I’ve given to Goodwill after her death. I kept a short shelf of her favorites, the books she re-read over and over — the Game of Thrones books by George R R Martin, everything by Jane Austen, and a few by Kurt Vonnegut.
In Stephanie’s honor I tried reading them after she died, but they’re not for me. Books should be read, not merely ornamental on a shelf in a shrine, so I’ve regretfully put her books in the charity box. Sorry, love.
Boxing up Pride and Prejudice, an index card stuck out from page 131, and plucking it out, hey, that’s my bad penmanship!Stephanie, being disabled, slept on her own schedule, so she & I left each other notes all the time, usually on index cards. Pizza tonight? Or, Don’t forget, doctor’s appointment this afternoon.
Being anti-sentimental, I never saved her notes to me, but to my amazement, she saved mine to her:
“Stephanie, Love The cat is sleeping at your elbow, so cute, so happy you’re home — as am I. Running errands. Please call if you’d like something from out in the world.”
From the line “so happy you’re home,” that card must’ve been written right after she’d been discharged from one of her lengthy hospital stays.
I’d never thought about it after writing it, but she’d kept that card for years, used it as a bookmark, and it was faded and yellowed, the bottom of the card frayed. It must’ve meant as much to her then as it means to me this morning, which is lots.
Flipping through her other books, more index cards fluttered out — notes from me to her, from so many years ago, which she’d never mentioned she’d kept. I’ve lost her page in all of those books, by taking those cards back…
“Stephanie — I love you. Things will be good. Call me if you want,” says one card.
“Things will be good,” says another. We must’ve been dealing with worries at that point, either worries about money or worries about her health.
“Stephanie — Holy moly I love you! I’ll be home by noon. Maybe we can go to lunch? Pet the cat! Kissy-kissy!” Yes, I wrote kissy-kissy.
And … “Stephanie — Remember always, I am head over heels in love with you. Schmooks!”
And… “Stephanie — Of all the humans, you’re my favorite. The forecast is sunshine, all day — would you like to go to Olbrich Gardens? I ♥ you.”
She owned several bookmarks manufactured as bookmarks, with pithy quotes, nicely laminated, but those aren’t in her books. And we always had random pieces of paper lying around — post cards, receipts, bills — that would’ve worked as pageholders. Yet she used my notes instead.
The notes were intended as a hug, to say ‘good morning’ to her, in case she woke while I was out. I never imagined I’d see those notes again, in some diminished future without her, and she’d hug me back.
This morning that’s making me cry, but it’s a happy cry. And I wonder, were there notes in her other books, in the boxes given to Goodwill? It hadn’t occurred to me then to flip through those books, so I’ll never know, but I hope some stranger bought one of those books for 50¢ or a dollar, and found a love letter on an index card.
2/22/2022
Republished 4/16/2025
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