Space Bound

Two hundred fifty thousand miles on a clear night in June, and I’m aiming right at you.

I believe that my late husand was supposed to kill himself and that I was supposed to be his wife when he did so. Call it destiny. Maybe it was fate. Give props to God if that’s what floats your boat. Personally, I don’t need to dissect it any longer or explain it to anyone. I think this is what they call acceptance. At least, that’s what I’m going to call it.

1,459. That’s how many days passed between Mark’s suicide and the first moment I experienced this miracle. And it hit while I was on a call with my therapist, no less.

Seriously, go to therapy already. It’s fucking magical.

There was no big hurrah. I didn’t draw any metaphorical lines in the sand and then step over them to “move on” from widowhood. Heck, I didn’t even post about it on social media. I did text my besty and seesters, my roomies, some of my widsters and one of my Marines to share this revelation, because I tell them all the things. But that was it.

Simply put, I’ve learned to live without Mark. That’s what I said to my therapist when it clicked. The words came out of my mouth, and just like that, I knew who I was. And who I am is so much more than Mark’s widow. I can see that now because I put him in a bag, you see.

Not really. He wasn’t cremated, so I’m not, like some widowed people I know, toting his ashes around. Nor his body, for that matter. He was buried, and I’ve not dug up his remains and tossed them in a bag. That would be gross, and probably illegal. (But if I’ve learned anything these last four years, it’s that one must be very clear when discussing death, or some people would still be thinking that I’d literally lost Mark somewhere and that he is still among the missing.) So, no. I’m not carrying my dead husband around in my purse. In fact, if you know me at all, you know that I don’t even own a purse.

But instead of drawing that metaphorical line in the sand, or suggesting that some mysterious man in the sky closed a door only to open a window, my mind conjured up a bag in which I now keep Mark. It isn’t anything fancy. Specifically, it makes me think of this unsturdy, but rather nifty, foldable, reusable bag that my little sister once gave me as a gift. It’s one you would wear on the shoulder, and it rolls back up so nice and small that it fits into a little pouch. It has a cute print. Floral, I think. And very lightweight. It was designed to not take up very much space until you need to open it up and fill it with groceries, but I’m keeping my dead husband in it instead.

The thing is, it wasn’t until I could see myself lifting that bag, and all of its heavy Mark-ness, off of my shoulder that I realized I’d been lugging it around in the first place. It was so freeing. Truly, my posture improved so immediately that I think I grew an inch. I let go of so much in that instant that my skin cleared up and my jeans fit better. Shit was flying around all over the place, and there were fireworks and a slow clap. Everyone was like, WHOA! DID YOU SEE THAT???

Just kidding. None of that happened. Remember, I only told my main people about the removal of this figurative Mark-filled bag and the ensuing freedom that I felt. But it was pretty spectacular. It rocked my world. Still does, actually. And my favorite part is knowing that, at any time I want, I can pick that bag back up. I mean, I only put it on the floor. Distinctively, I saw it land in a heaping thud in my bedroom, even though I was elsewhere when this epiphany struck. But that’s where I left it, along with all my other favorite things.

Mercifully, that bag now weighs less than it did upon removal. I’m not much into fashion, but it feels like a new favorite accessory. I can wear it with anything, and if it’s not a match for whatever I’m up to, I can leave it at home. It’ll still be there when I get back.