never see any of this again. They’re just nails and a hammer, just frames on a wall. But he’s always there no matter what I’m doing. He’s always there reminding me that he can never be there again.
An hour and a half later all ten frames hang on the office wall. They look perfect. I stand back and look at my work. I am impressed with myself, a little surprised also. I toss the hammer back in the toolbox, a lofty, cocky toss, as if I am its new master.
Later on that night I am lying in my bed. I stare up at the ceiling. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I get out of bed and try to find a book to read. I can’t read
The Godfather
at night. It scares me. The other day when I read the scene in which Michael has dinner with Sollozzo and McCluskey the cop, I had to stand up and walk around in the middle of it because I was so nervous for Michael. Tonight I just want to read something light and funny. I walk into my living room and look at the bookshelves. I see a small spine in the corner of the shelf. It says
Jelly Belly
in green writing.
Jelly Belly
is a book written for middle-school-aged kids. It’s about a boy who goes to fat camp and how he hides food in his swim trunks and stuff like that.
Jelly Belly
is one of my dad’s all-time favorite books. We have it in our bookshelf because he gave it to Josh to read. That’s the mark of a real gentleman. No matter what stupid thing my dad asked Josh to do—try on his new Keens, go shopping for orchids, or read a sixth-grade book about some chubby kid at fat camp—Josh did it. I open the book and right there in the front cover is a picture of Josh and medancing at our wedding. We are looking at each other, smiling. A pain pangs in my stomach. I can feel my throat dry up. I know exactly why this picture is here. Josh always used photographs as his bookmarks. So first, it tells me he picked this picture as a bookmark. I think of him looking at it, holding it and thinking,
Yeah, I like this one
, smiling to himself and sliding it into the book. That’s part of the crying. The second part is he picked out a bookmark for
Jelly Belly
, which means he had every intention of reading it. He didn’t just take it from my dad and say, “Oh yeah, sure,” and then throw it aside. He was actually going to read it because my dad wanted him to.
Earlier this month Dr. G. asked me what I thought of “spiritual connections.” I said I didn’t really know, but on the inside I was rolling my eyes. “Smoke and mirrors,” is what I wanted to say. She could sense my rigidity to the subject so all she said was, “Just don’t close yourself off.” I can’t remember the rest of what she said about it, but I remember that part exactly. I’m not saying I had a spiritual connection with Josh via
Jelly Belly
, I’m just saying I found the book and thought of Dr. G.’s words.
I don’t read
Jelly Belly
. Eventually I just get back in bed. I lie in bed, in the middle of the bed with one pillow. This is my life. The toolbox belongs to me. The bed only has one pillow and one body. I can only see Josh in pictures. I know I will make it, I know I will survive, but I hate my life. Somewhere, hours later, as I finally drift off to sleep I can feel Josh telling me, Don’t hate your life. It is his desperate message: Don’t hate your life.
The next morning Louise and Bug arrive, with wagging tails and boisterous barks. I know they are so happy to see me and I them, but they are also completely unsympathetic to me and my grief. They need attention and care and energy that I just can’t seem to summon. Jason, the dog trainer, comes overonce every two weeks to help train me in handling them. He tells me how to hold the leash, what to say to command them and how to say it. He emphasizes the point that the person giving the command (me) has to do so in a way that is calm and controlled. He says the dogs will respond to a calm, controlled command. Jason is a very nice man, but when he says this,
An hour and a half later all ten frames hang on the office wall. They look perfect. I stand back and look at my work. I am impressed with myself, a little surprised also. I toss the hammer back in the toolbox, a lofty, cocky toss, as if I am its new master.
Later on that night I am lying in my bed. I stare up at the ceiling. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I get out of bed and try to find a book to read. I can’t read
The Godfather
at night. It scares me. The other day when I read the scene in which Michael has dinner with Sollozzo and McCluskey the cop, I had to stand up and walk around in the middle of it because I was so nervous for Michael. Tonight I just want to read something light and funny. I walk into my living room and look at the bookshelves. I see a small spine in the corner of the shelf. It says
Jelly Belly
in green writing.
Jelly Belly
is a book written for middle-school-aged kids. It’s about a boy who goes to fat camp and how he hides food in his swim trunks and stuff like that.
Jelly Belly
is one of my dad’s all-time favorite books. We have it in our bookshelf because he gave it to Josh to read. That’s the mark of a real gentleman. No matter what stupid thing my dad asked Josh to do—try on his new Keens, go shopping for orchids, or read a sixth-grade book about some chubby kid at fat camp—Josh did it. I open the book and right there in the front cover is a picture of Josh and medancing at our wedding. We are looking at each other, smiling. A pain pangs in my stomach. I can feel my throat dry up. I know exactly why this picture is here. Josh always used photographs as his bookmarks. So first, it tells me he picked this picture as a bookmark. I think of him looking at it, holding it and thinking,
Yeah, I like this one
, smiling to himself and sliding it into the book. That’s part of the crying. The second part is he picked out a bookmark for
Jelly Belly
, which means he had every intention of reading it. He didn’t just take it from my dad and say, “Oh yeah, sure,” and then throw it aside. He was actually going to read it because my dad wanted him to.
Earlier this month Dr. G. asked me what I thought of “spiritual connections.” I said I didn’t really know, but on the inside I was rolling my eyes. “Smoke and mirrors,” is what I wanted to say. She could sense my rigidity to the subject so all she said was, “Just don’t close yourself off.” I can’t remember the rest of what she said about it, but I remember that part exactly. I’m not saying I had a spiritual connection with Josh via
Jelly Belly
, I’m just saying I found the book and thought of Dr. G.’s words.
I don’t read
Jelly Belly
. Eventually I just get back in bed. I lie in bed, in the middle of the bed with one pillow. This is my life. The toolbox belongs to me. The bed only has one pillow and one body. I can only see Josh in pictures. I know I will make it, I know I will survive, but I hate my life. Somewhere, hours later, as I finally drift off to sleep I can feel Josh telling me, Don’t hate your life. It is his desperate message: Don’t hate your life.
The next morning Louise and Bug arrive, with wagging tails and boisterous barks. I know they are so happy to see me and I them, but they are also completely unsympathetic to me and my grief. They need attention and care and energy that I just can’t seem to summon. Jason, the dog trainer, comes overonce every two weeks to help train me in handling them. He tells me how to hold the leash, what to say to command them and how to say it. He emphasizes the point that the person giving the command (me) has to do so in a way that is calm and controlled. He says the dogs will respond to a calm, controlled command. Jason is a very nice man, but when he says this,
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