Yesterday I
turned on the desktop computer, which I’d turned off at the beginning of the
summer, to prevent it from overheating since my apartment isn’t
air-conditioned. The desktop is the computer my husband used; it’s the computer
that has seven years of his e-mail, which I’ve been going through just to hear
his voice in his words.
When I
turned on the computer, without thinking I logged into my account. After a few
minutes it sank in that the desktop did not look right. It didn’t have the
photo of Jack that I had installed after he died. It didn’t have the files of
e-mail that I had created to save the messages I wanted to keep. What had
happened?
I have a
Mac, which has a built-in backup drive called Time Machine. I opened up Time
Machine, but no matter how far back I went, I couldn’t find the files or the
desktop I expected. What had happened? How had I lost everything?
A sinking
feeling fell over me, and I began to feel I would fall apart. It was as though
Jack had died all over again, only now it felt like he was really gone, I had
no more access to his mind, his sense of humor, his thoughts. I wanted to wail,
to fall on the floor—both terror and great emptiness.
At the same
time, I tried to be realistic, to be the kind of person who didn’t keep
memories of her dead husband in physical objects or words on a page or screen.
Who now slept in the middle of the bed, removed his placemat from the table. I
had to be a person who went on with her life—I’m still here, I have to handle
all the losses, whatever they are.
Among the
scraps of paper I found the other day in my latest fit of decluttering was this
quote from Gilda Radner: “I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard
way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear
beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking
the moment and making the best of it, without know what’s going to happen
next.” It was so appropriate to where I was at that moment.
As I was about
to write this experience into my journal, it hit me. What I was missing wasn’t
on my login, it was on Jack’s. Sure enough, I logged out, logged in as him, and
there it all was. The photo on the desktop, the e-mail files. Everything I
thought I’d lost was found.
I still
felt a bit shaken, not sure what I can rely on. Jack is still dead, but only
once, not twice. And last night, I dreamt of him, which I rarely do. I dreamt
he returned, and we were in bed together, one of our favorite places.
-------------------------------------
It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two
Writing Teachers. Check
out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of
life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
