Kevin died three months ago.
That seems impossible, because I know he was here just a minute ago, loving me and laughing with our daughter. Living, breathing, fighting the cancer beast with courage and hope.
He left in rainy April, and my grief poured from the skies, drenching the bare dirt mound of his grave. May’s soft days did nothing to soothe my heartache. The bright sunshine of June could not penetrate my dark sorrow and now, here in July’s muggy heat, I am still numb and frozen in disbelief. The days, indifferent to my anguish, steadily move me farther and farther away from the last time I kissed my husband, felt his warm hug enveloping me, heard his voice rumble in my ear.
For three months, my only thought has been one voiced by our daughter the day after he died:
“I want Daddy to come back now. I’ve had enough of him being gone.”
Kevin traveled a lot for work, but he hated, hated, being gone from us. We counted the days until we were all three together again and each phone call from a lonely hotel room concluded with kisses smacked into the phone, “I love my girls. I can’t wait to get home.”
I’ve been waiting him to call me for three months now. Each time the phone rings, I check the caller ID, knowing it’s impossible that his number will show up, but hoping all the same. Sometimes the disappointment is so great, I can’t answer the phone. If I can’t talk to him, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I need to tell him how tall our girl is getting, giggle over her latest pun, catch him up on her imaginary world, show him the blanket fort she built in the basement.
I beg each day to be the day he finally comes home. It’s been too long; I’ve had enough of him being gone. I miss him so much and I want nothing more than for him to walk through the kitchen door, drop his duffel bag, open his arms, and say, “Oh, Baby Doll, it’s good to be home!” I want to fall into that hug and relax with relief that my life is back. I lived it so many times, it seems impossible that it won’t happen this time.
He won’t be coming back from this last trip. When he died on that Tuesday afternoon three months ago, I know he walked through a different door. He dropped that heavy burden of cancer and God met him with open arms. He was welcomed home. But he can’t call me to tell me he made it safely, and that he loves me and misses us. He can’t ask me to give the Bear a kiss from Daddy.
Even though I’m still here waiting for him to, phone in hand, crying by the kitchen door.