Missing

A woman was on the news tonight. Her husband just died two weeks ago from this virus, this pandemic, this brutal brutal thing. They had three children together. They have three children together still, but she is now the only parent. Like me.

He was healthy. He did not want to die. He wanted to be alive. 

He was loving. He was beloved. He was living love.

He was there. He was a husband, a dad, a coach, a community member.

He is dead now and she is being interviewed about how loving he was. 

And she is crying because she misses her husband.

I watched the interview with sadness, with heartache, with empathy, with envy.

I was uncomfortable in my marriage.

I was crying a lot.

In the marriage. While he was alive.

I was mourning things I thought would be but weren't: late night pillow talks about our kids, intertwined feet, a surprise note on the kitchen table, requests to go out together, spontaneous kisses, a folded bin of laundry every once in a while...

I was mourning things I thought wouldn't be but were: empty bottles tucked into the deep corners of cabinets, a refusal to talk, a constant feeling like I was peripheral, missing money, missing dinners, missing family gatherings, missing missing missing missing.

I missed him in our marriage.

I tried to coax him into it. 

Held his hand.

Requested dinners out.

Arranged sitters.

Wondered how he was doing. Always asked how he was doing.

Dressed up.

Did my hair.

Left him notes.

Made him gifts. 

Made him dinner.

Asked him if he was doing ok. 

Hoping he would ask me if I was doing ok. Just once.

I wanted him to appear. I wanted to not miss him every day, even though he was there.

I thought he would be a part of our marriage, but I was our marriage and he was apart from it.

So when my husband went missing, when he took his life, when he wrapped a rope around his neck and truly disappeared, there was an avalanche of shock, there was an avalanche of sadness, but there was no avalanche of missing him. 

There was no TV interview.

There was no version of me sitting in front of a camera, with tears in my eyes, missing our late night pillow talks about the kids, intertwined feet, a surprise note on the kitchen table, requests to go out together, spontaneous kisses, a folded bin of laundry every once in a while...

I had already actively missed him and mourned him for ten years.

He was already missing. I had been missing him. He was missed. For ten years, he was missing.