Picture Perfect

 

“I’m sorry, Baby,” I said to your realer-than-life photo. “I couldn’t hang onto it. Not without you. It only made sense if you were there, too.”

The house. Our dream. I put it up for sale today. On another snowy day in Heber where we missed seeing elk prints and deer droppings, no doubt, where they dotted the fresh, white wonderland of the dream we went for last fall. We missed it again, just like we missed the biggest snowfall in five years—a foot at our cabin—because we were both in the hospital in Show Low, fighting our individual, lonely battles with covid. A battle I won. A battle you lost.

I lost you. My one and only darling who I’ve loved since I was sixteen years old. I lost you. It’s been more than three weeks since Katy and I sat on each side of your bed, holding your hands, and telling you it was all right for you to go. You asked to go. Demanded it when the questions were asked. Those horrible questions we never saw coming until the doctor called unexpectedly. But when they finally said we could come see you, since we agreed not to fight your wishes, we knew instantly that you were right and we had to let you go.

I didn’t want to. I wish we didn’t have to. We had no choice. You didn’t either. I don’t know what happened, Baby. Why did I get well and you didn’t? The questions are deadly, packed full of guilt and condemnation. They torment me when I’m not looking, prodding me with remorse and regret. If only I’d . . . dot, dot, dot. I should have never . . . fill in the blank. It’s endless. Merciless. Pointless.

Sometimes I envy you. There are days I’m so angry that you left me here to handle all these painful details, grieving without your comforting shoulder to cry on, knowing full well you’re free and happy with Jesus. It makes me angry with both of you. How could He do that? How could He take you from me? From Katy and Lee and their families? And how can He remain silent while we beg for explanations?

There are plenty of explanations—from others. But they don’t help and they don’t explain anything. Why did it look like this last chance at our mountain home dream was meant to be? Why did everything fall into place? We got the last house in Heber when we picked up the keys that day in late November. An acre and a half in the woods. Three bedrooms and an office. My dream kitchen. Your dream property. A deck overlooking the forest where we could spend the next twenty years drinking coffee and cocoa together in peace and quiet while we scanned the distance for tentative deer.

We had it all. We bought a fun swing for the grandkids. Planned ziplines in the trees, treehouses for overnight visits, built gates to the wash where the kiddos could explore and build forts. We put up a Brody-proof fence so he couldn’t escape from the biggest backyard a dog could possibly want. We unpacked nearly every box. Set up my writing space. You even attended a Toastmasters meeting from the office looking out at our front yard of tall pines. We were home. Not completely settled, but we finally had our place in the woods.

For five weeks. Thirty-five days. Until the fevers and shortness of breath got our attention and the ambulances carried us away from there, leaving our sanctuary in a state of suspended animation. Frozen in time with blankets and thermometers scattered around the living room where we both struggled to catch our breath. We left together for the last time. I’m left without you for the rest of my life.

I can’t live there without you, Darling. You wouldn’t want me to. Hours away from our family in the Valley, trying to make sense of my shattered world in a town where I hardly know anyone. So, the dream is gone. Stolen from us in broad daylight

Worse than that, you’re gone.

I don’t understand. None of us do. Maybe there where you live now, happy and free and enjoying Jesus, that mansion He promised is a million times better than our faded, twenty-two-year old cabin in the woods of northern Arizona. I’m sure it is.

I just wish He’d waited a lot longer to give you the keys so I could have been there, too, instead of sitting here alone at my computer, virtually signing away the last home we ever shared. And missing you.

Still, I saw pictures of the snow in Heber today. Like a picture postcard, it was everything we ever dreamed of together.

It just wasn’t worth the price we paid.