The Closing Act
My husband died on February 13, 2021, before covid vaccines were available to us. It was unthinkable to have a memorial gathering under those circumstances. So the congregating of relatives was postponed—until last week.
It began Monday evening, with a table of fourteen people at Local Flavor Cafe. Among this group were people who hadn’t seen one another for eleven years or more. A cacophony of huggers and handshakers pairing off to catch up on the last decade—before sitting down. We filled the dining room like a bunch of protesters on the capitol steps.
Finally, each body managed to get into a chair and ancient photographs started circulating. “Look at Papasan with Kirk’s steel guitar!” “Was I ever that young?” But eventually everybody managed to order food (admirable crowd management on our server’s behalf—Thank you, David). The noise level in the room eased dramatically when the food arrived. I’m sure the other patrons were relieved.
As the reserver of the table, I felt a responsibility to lead the group. So once we’d dined and settled the bill, I instructed my immediate family to stand in unison and head for the door—to set the example. Otherwise, we would all probably still be sitting in Local Flavor catching up on old times. The protestors resumed their stance outside the restaurant—more hugging and laughing and stories. You’ve never really experienced a “long goodbye” until you’ve tried to leave the Ashworth family.
On Tuesday, the 21st—when my darling and I would have been celebrating our 36th wedding anniversary—I think my husband’s spirit woke me. I was up at 4 a.m., the way he would have been, to begin preparing for visitors. The reunion crowd gathered at my home at 8 a.m. (to avoid the heat), and my family and friends had a “Hootenanny Poetry Talk-a-thon,” to borrow my brother-in-law’s phrase.
We took turns singing songs, reciting poems, or telling stories that, in some way, celebrated my departed soulmate. We cried. We laughed. We ate. We fought the ants that tried take over the breakfast buffet. It was the most fitting tribute possible.
When the in-laws and locals left, my immediate family and I separated the leftovers from the ants and played tabletop games—like we did as a young family. I finally turned out my light at midnight.
Up at 7 a.m. on Wednesday, ready to face one more “Ashworth Plan.” I began the process by emailing the in-laws at 9:22. By 11:30, we had a plan for one last get together. Mind you, this was two hours of near constant emailing and texting. The creation of an Ashworth plan requires stamina.
At 5 p.m. we all gathered at Sparky’s for the final frenzied family function—and the maneuvers of another patient server faced with mob control (Thank you, Seam). When dinner was done, I once again led the exit, and the crowd re-convened in the parking lot for pictures and hugs until those of us who married into the Ashworth family finagled the final departure. (The term “herding cats” comes to mind).
I was an only child, but through my husband I was blessed (and cursed) with a large family. One that swoops in like a storm—but carries sunshine in its midst. My darling would have enjoyed this whirlwind at least as much as I did. Thanks to all who participated in this closing act. I needed it more than I knew.