The Year of Lists
Like anyone who has lost a partner, I faced a rather tedious and seemingly endless series of tasks. My to-do list grew, even as I worked to make it smaller. Many items required checklists of their own. And with so many working from home during the pandemic, it wasn’t unusual to wait thirty, forty, or fifty minutes on hold. The world moved ahead despite my family’s grief, albeit slowly, and I remember thinking that my list wouldn’t disappear until I filed taxes the following April. In the adult world, our to-do lists never finish, and my own seems twice as long without someone to help divide and conquer.
Some days, after a lengthy call with a bank or dealing with the dysfunction of a particular human resources department, I’d muster the energy to cancel half of our AAA coverage, or Valerie’s cannabis card, or her membership at the local gym. Crossing off these minor tasks gave me the slightest sense of accomplishment, which in turn offered an equal amount of consolation. At least I’m making progress, I’d say to myself. All the while, I kept a separate inventory of those things that required no action, needn’t be written down, yet consumed as much attention as, let’s say, locating a marriage certificate or completing a dozen forms, in duplicate, so that Emerson and Whitman could begin the new school year. Much like my original to-do list, this catalogue document continues to expand and evolve.
For instance, here’s the list of books the kids and I returned—or did I do that alone?— before I cancelled Valerie’s library card: Afro-Vegan: Farm-Fresh African, Caribbean and Southern Flavors Remixed; The Anti-Inflammatory Diet & Action Plans; Anxiety Relief for Kids; Dandelion & Quince: Exploring the Wide World of Unusual Vegetables, Fruits, and Herbs; The Hormone Fix; Inspiralized and Beyond: Spiralize, Chop, Rice, and Mash Your Vegetables into Creative, Craveable Meals; Knack South American Cooking; Martha Stewart’s Vegetables; and The World of Filipino Cooking.
Also in that stack: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; Power Animals: How to Connect with Your Animal Spirit Guide; and Voices in the Park, a 32-page children’s book.
Or for instance (and per the CDC), life expectancy for women in 2020 was 80.5 years, or 29,382 days. Valerie lived 15,339 days. We went on our first date—tapas and several nightcaps—in 2005, on the eve of Valentine’s Day and the day after my 29th birthday. There sleeps that anniversary and the first of our 5,656 days as a couple, a little more than a third of Valerie’s life.
I believe it worth mentioning that our first date lasted something like sixteen hours.
456 people contributed to a fundraiser—organized by our dear friends—to help my family through the immediate months after Valerie died. Others sent cash, gift cards, and checks directly. Others mailed art supplies for the kids and others purchased books for us to share. Others delivered meals or arranged their delivery. In the dailyness—one foot in front of the other still—I haven’t adequately thanked most of these kind people, many of whom (friends of friends or family of friends) I’ll likely never meet.
And during that time, for instance, I discovered handwritten numbers in the top corner of each day on the calendar that hangs in our kitchen. I was initially confounded and then left speechless. The largest number, 186, appears at the end of June and decreases, square by square and week by week, until reaching zero on December 25th. And so, one month and two weeks before she died, Valerie must have grabbed a pen, removed the thumbtack that holds the calendar to the wall, and sat down at our table when one of the children—surely it was Whitman—asked his mother, “How many days until Christmas?”
For instance, on a Tuesday morning five months ago, I stopped at Myopic Books and visited the second floor where Valerie and I first met. I’ve stood in that room once and only once since Valerie died, although my train passes behind the building several times each week.
On a different morning, I stopped while reaching for one of the fifteen or sixteen coffee cups in our kitchen cabinet. Some I’ve owned for decades, souvenirs from New York City, British Columbia, and Kalamazoo. Newer cups bear the likeness of David Bowie or Patrick Swayze. The one I received for Father’s Day reads “The World’s Best Dad” (There can be only one, I like to joke). Others are printed with pictures of the kids or a black-and-white photo of Daisy, our sweet dog. There’s a hint of pleasure in having choice and I’d like to believe that whatever cup I choose will help set the mood for the day. There nonetheless came that morning when I hesitated, startled by the number of coffee cups but really by the fact that, without Valerie, I’m the only coffee drinker in the house.
This counting is a tally or like a registry of what remains, a document of what can be touched or, more accurately, a necessary ballast to our immeasurable loss…
For instance, I carefully filled fourteen boxes on the day I returned to Valerie’s office at Wright College and packed away her library. Twenty-six of those books—in a box separate from the rest—are authored by Shirley Jackson or center on her life and writing. Back at home, seven blouses in various shades and tones of green still hang among Valerie’s clothes. There are three places where you can find identical pairings of Valerie’s lipstick (Wicked Red) and lipliner (Ruby Red): one in the upstairs vanity; one atop the trays that keep Valerie’s jewelry; and one in the tote bag Valerie had with her at the airport on the morning of August 8th when we said goodbye. More than a year later, six prescription drugs—Dexamathasone, Diazepam, Fiorset, Tramadol, Verapamil, and Zolpidem Tartrate—huddle in the recess of that same tote bag.
And here’s a list of the inconsequential, the things I’ve thrown away after too much delay and deliberation: expired medicines and a pair of seven-day pillboxes; ten or twelve unopened boxes of contact lenses; the dozens of bath bombs that Valerie made from scratch but, we quickly learned, left both our tub and children a shade of green, pink, or orange; the first of Valerie’s toothbrushes and then another; a piece of masking tape on which Valerie wrote “raisins” and stuck on a twelve-ounce mason jar containing… wait for it… raisins.
And, for instance, there’s no shortage of membership cards—a record of 21st century life—on the keyring Valerie owned and that now hangs on the hook by the front door of our house. There’s a story, I suppose, for each of these…
And once there were ten of Valerie’s socks in the clear plastic bag that we repurposed as a home for widowed socks—mine, hers, and those belonging to our children. One of Valerie’s missing socks dropped to the floor last fall when I stripped the mattress cover in the guest room. And while I’d like to imagine I’ve earned a “passing grade” for housekeeping, just a few weeks ago I reached under our bed and found a dark-green, argyle sock with a periwinkle triangle over the toe and another up near the cuff. I’ve since washed these nearly forgotten socks, matched and folded each with their respective companions and, to what end I’m not sure, reunited them with the other socks that Valerie used to wear.
Or for instance, I also discovered that Valerie used a black Sharpie to print variations of Emerson’s name on each of the pencils she used at school and then at home once the pandemic began. In tiny capital letters, she wrote EMR or EL LÁPIZ DE EMERSON or EMERSON ROBINS followed by an equally tiny heart. On the day I found the pencil that reads EMERCITA MI AMOR, whatever periphery grief I held—waiting always, right there in the wings—surged forward, bent me over, then vanished as quickly as it had come.
Although the end of Valerie’s life arrived abruptly, surprised everyone including her doctors, I continue to carry (for instance) the insufferable hope that I’ll find a note or letter in which Valerie says goodbye. My heart knows better, understands in fact the wish is rooted in closure. None of this has stopped me from checking her nightstand, the files on her laptop, or the pockets of her winter jacket. I’ve sifted through several stacks of clothes, explored first one and then all of Valerie’s purses, and even considered the papers in the glovebox of her car. I’ve revisited the fragments of what I remember from our final conversation, then the pages of her journal, and then (a little drunk) the steady, cold gaze of the moon. Soon enough, I’m sure I’ll find myself back in our bedroom, opening each drawer of Valerie’s nightstand, and yet again looking inside.