Tidying up after someone dies is a strange experience. On one level, it's sad and depressing. But it also brings up memories, mostly good ones. I could never describe the feeling when I stumbled upon my wife's wedding dress. The happiest day of my life came back to me as if it were yesterday instead of two years ago.
Selfishly, there's also an sick enjoyment of tossing out the things you've wanted to toss out but were afraid to because she didn't want you to. It's part of the danger of being married to a packrat. "Don't toss that out," she said about the Windows 98 disc. "I might need that"
"We haven't used Windows 98 in years!"
"So?" she'd reply, one word encapsulating her whole argument and the uselessness of my arguing with her. It's a talent only the married can understand.
I also stumbled upon a journal she kept when she was starting treatment for depression. I knew she was depressive when I met her, and it was a great accomplishment for me when I helped her begin treatment. It's only fair; months later she helped convince me to seek help, and it improved my life immeasurably. Anyway, in this journal, she talked about how unhappy she was, how her childhood had left her vulnerable to abuse, how awful her first marriage was, and how she felt she'd never fit in. The last line was, "I just want to be happy."
I spent the rest of the day hoping I had made her happy. She always said she was, but I couldn't help but wonder if I had really done enough. The regret of the survivor, I suppose.
I was cleaning out more of her stuff later that day and came upon a disposable camera we had bought for a dolphin sighting trip we had taken before she was diagnosed with cancer. The camera was two years old, and I had little hope anything could be recovered, but I took it to the drug store anyway.
When I got the photos back, there were the expected shots of dolphin fins and other boats. Then came the last photo. I remember she and I were re-enacting the "King of the World" scene from "Titanic." First there was me, looking goofy. Then the final picture was her.
I thought I had seen joy before. Elation. Happiness. Delight.
Her expression in this picture conveys a emotion beyond the poor abilities of a word to describe.
This picture, her final gift to me, is, I believe, her answer to my question. Yes, she tells me. I am happy.
I have stopped believing in coincidences.
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