The Coffee Table

Ripples and Dots

As I write this, the fifth anniversary of my husband’s death looms near, wreaking havoc with my ability to focus on any given task. By the time you read what I’ve written, I will likely have weathered the storm and once again be driven by To-Do lists. 

I don’t mark these kinds of occasions on the calendar. I don’t plan visits with relations or a tearful graveside visit (which would actually justmean standing in my closet under the shelf where Kirk’s ashes reside—mostly because I haven’t yet decided where they go). I don’t consciously anticipate this annual recurrence. My body just knows.    

A friend took me to a concert at the public library in a neighboring town this week: A duo who mostly played guitars and sang lovely harmonies. But they peppered the performance with banjo, mandolin, lap steel, and even a clarinet. It reminded me of Kirk and me, toting a minimum of five instruments for the pair of us.

I knew all of the songs except the ones they had written. And I cried.

I cried because one of the fellows wore a button-down shirt with a string tie and a black leather vest—just like Kirk often did when we performed. 

I cried because that could have been us playing for this audience of aging locals. Except my butthead husband kicked the pail.

Most of the time I don’t dwell on his absence. I don’t agonize over his leaving me behind, because, years ago, I made a conscious decision to just get on with things. I shopped around for which beach to live on. And when I got here, I found a regular music jam—and I now play the banjo better than I ever did when Kirk was alive.  

Because I can no longer depend on him to fill in the holes.

While I lived by myself for several stretches prior to marrying Kirk, this is the longest I’ve ever lived alone without so much as a roommate. (Well, a human roommate. Tootsie the Wonder Dog has been with me since Kirk’s departure and remains my steadfast companion.) Kirk used to talk a lot. And now I talk to myself all the time. Just to hear a human voice, I think. Sometimes I remember to turn on the radio. More often, I forget and just fill up the void with my own intermittent utterances.  

In almost every town I’ve lived in, there was at least one old woman in the neighborhood who I regularly saw talking to herself. I suppose I presumed they were all a little dotty. But now I get it.

Or maybe I’m dotty. 

I took over writing Kirk’s The Coffee Table column the week he died—because I didn’t want to see it go by the wayside—and believe I have now written it longer than he did. It’s made me a better writer. It’s made me pay more attention to what goes on in the world, so I’ll have something proper to write about. 

Some readers of this column will remember Kirk. Some will have no idea about him at all. And yet, if they are reading this column, they have been, in some small way, affected by him. I guess that’s the way it works. We all touch somebody, and the ripple effect does whatever it does. Thanks, Kirk. The good, the bad, and the ugly of us made me who I am today. And, for the most part, I’m doing all right.