Going Solo

I remember how the mike always shook in my hand. I was a musician, church pianist, choir member, but the only time I felt nervous was when I sang alone. Performing before an audience is different than practicing at home in your kitchen. Especially when it’s Mother’s Day and the lyrics are prophetic.

There are watercolor ponies on my refrigerator door . . . a reminder to us all of how time flies.

The pleasure of watching the children growing is mixed with a bitter cup of knowing

The watercolor ponies will one day ride away.

Wayne Watson’s words still bring tears to my eyes. We were deep in the piles of laundry his song spoke of when I sang the special music that morning. I tried to maintain my composure and hit the notes like my heart wasn’t breaking, but it wasn’t easy reminding a congregation and myself that we are only gifted with our children for a little while.

From the moment they were born, I knew we’d have to let them go live their lives one day, let them follow their dreams, fight their battles, face their heartaches, win their victories. We would watch from the sidelines, holding our breath, praying for them, weeping with them, and celebrating.

But still, we would be sidelined.

Baby, what will we do, when it comes back to me and you? They look a little less like little ones every day.

We were as prepared as possible. We gave the kids a good send off, cut the apron strings, celebrated their freedom (and ours), and looked forward to the next chapter. I thought we were great cheerleaders. I was relieved we were still friends, both with each other and with our grown children and their families. We did it. And when it finally came back to just Rob and me, we kept going.

We still had each other.

But.

There’s always a but.

I don’t remember any songs asking what I’d do when “it comes back” to just me. When my mate for life loses his life. Maybe there’s one out there, but I’ve never heard of it. I’ve never seen a book on marriage, either, giving ten ways to prepare for grief and loss. How depressing. The thought of going solo was so far in the future, there was no reason to think about it.

And now here I am.

Today it’s been four years since Rob took his last breath. Four years since I had to learn how to breathe again. How to keep living without him in my world. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since he held me in his arms, laughed until he went red in the face, snuggled with his grandbabies, kissed my lips, and told me that he loves me. Four years ago was the last time his children heard his voice and knew they could reach out to him any time they wanted to. Four years ago today he walked into the presence of Jesus and I learned I can’t compete with that.

Left alone on the stage, the echoes of the final verse rang in my ears. “Baby, what will I do when it comes back to me without you?” I knew the poetic answers. I read plenty of them on Hallmark cards. But as the congregation filed out the door of the church, leaving those cards and sentiments to yellow, they returned to their lives while the soloist returned to an empty house.

There’s so much you learn when all the watercolor ponies ride away.

I miss him. I miss him so much words are useless. I’ve hit every level of grief known to man and dozens of others you only discover when you’re face down in a mud puddle made of your own tears. I’ve blamed God. I’ve blamed myself. I’ve blamed doctors and politicians and even Rob. I’ve wished I could enjoy alcohol and, instead, have been forced to settle for overdosing on chocolate. I’ve tried to drive away from the heartache, managing only to put 75,000 miles on my new truck while wearing out two batteries and a set of Michelins. I wore out my dog with my grief until he abandoned me and joined Rob in heaven.

This is hard.

This is really hard.

I’ve been quite public about it, leaving a few people to wonder if I’ve lost either my mind or my faith in Christ. Maybe some in the audience think it’s better not to hold onto the mike if you can’t perform well. But I didn’t write this song. I was just asked to sing it.

So, what is the answer to that long ago question? Surprisingly, Wayne Watson never gave one. And what of my question? What do you do when it comes back to you without the man you love? After all this time, the only thought I have is this. I think you have to learn to sing your own song.

From becoming a bride to being a widow, Jesus has been with me the entire time. Even when I beat my hands against his chest, he held on to me. Even when I called him The God I’m Not Talking To, he never stopped listening to me. Never let me go. Never let me down.

I don’t know why I had to lose Rob when we all love him so much. But if anyone knows what it is to lose and keep losing, it’s God. If anyone knows what it’s like to love and keep loving, it’s Him. He would not give up on me.

I am not the woman I once was. Half of me died four years ago today. But the woman I am becoming is less afraid to stand alone on a stage. And the woman I used to be has learned what it is like to be carried through fire. I thought I would disintegrate if I ever lost Rob, my beloved. And sure enough, I did. But I also survived.

When it came back to just me, Jesus was there.

Really, that’s all I know.

Criminal Intent

I don’t know. I’m beginning to think she’s possessed. Or maybe she has a drinking problem. They bragged to me about her ‘thoughtful intelligence,’  but I’m not buying it. I’ve spent a lot of time watching her work and she is neither thoughtful nor intelligent. At best I’d describe her as an idiot savant and, at worst, simply an idiot.

Yesterday I gave these clear instructions: “Go.”

I removed every obstacle in her way.

I closed doors to areas where she didn’t have the proper clearances.

It was such an easy job, even I could have done it. It could not have been a more straight-forward assignment, but in her defense, I suppose that makes me a slow learner.

Leaving her to her work, I disappeared into my office to write in peace and relative quiet. And then I got hungry. I wandered into the kitchen and glanced around the great room, relieved at the nice job she was doing. Until I looked down and there, at my feet, lay a turd. I mean, it looked like a turd. If I owned a dog. Which I don’t. All I own is an iRobot.

I’d be better off with a dog.

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. With a wave of dread, I looked beyond the sofa and there, lying crushed beneath the small table where she’s normally on display, lay my prayer plant. Gutted. Her earthen insides spilled out across the floor from one end to the other in a scene so macabre, its only saving grace was the way the grisly image was confined to being black and pearlite white.

“Oh, no,” I gasped, racing to her side. “What has she done to you?”

I didn’t even have to ask. I knew who was behind this.

Gingerly, I lifted the desecrated shrub from where she’d fallen and assessed the damage. Her leaves were still green. That had to be good. She must still be getting oxygen. Nothing appeared to be broken. She wasn’t leaking any fluid. Still, her potting soil was spread across the LVP flooring all the way to the laundry room, tire tracks telling the entire tragic story. My Calathea Rattlesnake Prayer Plant had been brutalized, and I knew exactly who the culprit was.

From the other side of the room a happy hum floated through the air, and I swear I heard a satisfied little burp.

Roomba. The criminal.

This time I had undisputable evidence. Prayer plants don’t jump off tables to their deaths without some kind of nefarious help. It wouldn’t be spiritual. I could picture the whole incident in my mind. Roomba bashing again and again into the hairpin legs of the little wooden table, relentless, vicious, jealous of the care I occasionally give to an innocent potted plant.

Oh, the humanity.

“Murderer!” I yelled across the great room as Roomba scurried away. “El Diablo!” I followed up, as she bounced off the legs of my piano. “El stupido!” I shouted at the mechanical vacuum who only speaks Spanish. I hurried to the kitchen sink for a damp sponge to clean up the dirty mess as Roomba raced across the room to add insult to injury.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarled, my voice falling to levels my children would have recognized as terrifyingly subhuman. It always worked on them, but they have souls. All Roomba has are computer chips and attitude. I grabbed at her handle just before she plowed into the wounded foliage again, aiming her in the opposite direction. She swirled around and took another swipe at the sainted victim of her malevolence. “Cannibal!” I screamed in horror, lunging at her off switch just in the nick of time.

Out of breath, I sank down on my sofa and surveyed the damage. This was war. And I was outnumbered.

I don’t know why I put up with her except that I don’t want to do the vacuuming myself. She’s inept. And she needs ESL training. I mean, if you live and work in this country, you should also speak the language. I need a translator whenever she sucks up one of my drapes and screams at me in her native tongue from across the house. I don’t know what she’s yelling about—I never took high school Spanish. I studied French.

I’m in over my head here. I’ve talked to other Roomba owners and I think, in general, it’s obvious we need to form a support group. One man told me his iRobot walked right off the job without explanation, drove into its micro-garage and never worked again. No coaxing or plea agreements could get it to come out. There’s another story gone viral about a Roomba that intentionally ran over a pile of fresh dog poo and, the next morning, the poor owner woke up to what he could only describe as a poopocalypse.

I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more evidence or dire warnings. I’m not going to be held hostage to a rotund robot who is an obvious terrorist any longer. I hate to do it but the jig is up. My plants have given me an ultimatum—it’s them or her.

It’s not even a contest. I bought a basic iRobot model who came with glowing reviews written by residents of Mexico praising her fondness for animal fur. Maybe she’s been yelling at me the whole time because I don’t have any dog hair around for her to eat. Something got lost in translation and I think it was the word for “houseplant.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. Roomba has been outed by my surviving potted plants, three to one, and they want her gone. They even have a message for her. They're tired of being depotted. Time for her to be deported. 

Hasta la vista, baby.