gone

Two years ago today, I got up ridiculously early in the morning to drive my husband to the airport and say goodbye as he was flying back home for two weeks of work before returning to us on our vacation in California.

"It’s early and it’s dark out, you don’t have to get out of the car to say good-bye.”

"Of course I am getting out of the car, so I can hug you."

I stood by him as he got his luggage from the trunk.  I gave him a hug and a kiss.  

“I wish I could hold you one more time,” he said as he pulled away.  “I love you.”

“You will.  I will see you in just two weeks.  I love you too.”

Then he took his suitcase and rolled it inside the sliding airport doors.  I sat in the car and watched him walk up to the ticket counter for check in and then once he was out of view, I pulled away.

That was the last time I saw him.  

He flew home, returned to work, and died fourteen days later.  We talked on the phone and I “saw” him via computer screen on Skype during that time.  But that early morning at the airport, before sunrise, was the last time I really saw him.

Later that month I returned to our home.  When I unlocked the door and walked in I saw his uniform jacket draped over the dining room chair.  Just as I had a thousand times before over the previous fifteen years.

Later that evening, I gathered up enough courage to walk into our bedroom and I saw his boots by the side of the bed.  Just three feet away from the closet, but never ever in the closet.  Just as I had a thousand times before over the previous fifteen years.

A bowl and a spoon were in the sink, left from having had cereal for breakfast.  An almost empty jug of sweet tea in the fridge.  A Lego set on the dining room table, because it was for “the kids,” I am sure.  The TV remote on the arm of a couch.  

I was weird to realize I would miss seeing all those things out of place.  Or rather in the place they usually were and would be no more.

Or to realize he would never walk through that laundry room door, from the garage, at about 4:20ish ever again.  I could stare at that door over and over but it just was not going to happen.

When someone we love dies, they leave a vast void in their stead. Where a life once existed, now only memories. 

Those memories suddenly become our most precious possessions. We gather them close to our hearts and replay them over and over on a loop; like a movie reel of a life. We cling to them desperately, hoard them even, for they are all we have left of the person we lost.

We can’t help but think of all the memories that will never be made; all the should-have-beens and momentous occasions they will miss— graduations, weddings, grandchildren born. 

We think of all the unfilled hopes and dreams; the aspirations and plans for the future that are now all gone.

We think of the things they will never get to do, the trips they won’t get to take, things they won’t get to see. 

But gone isn’t just those big momentous events or the things they’ll never do.

Gone is so very much more than that.

Gone is a thousand tiny seemingly insignificant, ordinary things that we took for granted every single day. Things we may have even once complained about. 

Gone is no more cereal bowl in the sink, no more uniform jacket on the dining room chair, no more sweet tea in the fridge.

Gone is no more papers scattered all over the bedroom dresser with little notes from work.

Gone is no more PT gear or uniforms to wash.

Gone is no more buzz of a text on his phone.

Gone is no combat boots in front of the bed to trip over.

As I was cleaning up and vacuuming today, I paused in the bedroom by the bed. I stopped and I listened to an echo of a memory,

“Seriously Ryan, why do the boots always sit by the side of the bed?  The closet is right there.” 

I looked down at the floor. 

There was nothing there.

Just an empty space.

Sometimes you don’t fully comprehend the significance of something so simple in your life until it is no longer there.

All too often we don’t appreciate how fortunate we are until what we have is gone. 

Not that we are purposely ungrateful. We just get so caught up in the chaos of life, so busy hurrying from one day to the next, we forget to stop and be grateful for all that we have. 

And sometimes in all of the stress, all of the rushing to and fro, we don’t even see how much we have to be grateful for. 

We don’t realize just how meaningful a pair of combat boots by the bedside really are.

We very rarely stop to think about what gone actually is because, well, we never really think it will happen to us. 

Gone isn’t just some throwaway term or trite cliché used to define the absence of someone. Gone is real, and it’s enduring. 

And gone, it does happen to us. Randomly; unexpectedly. On a Friday June morning.

Two years ago today I didn’t know the true meaning of gone. 

I didn’t know just how hard it would be to start over at 36.

I didn’t know about the challenges of only parenting a preteen and a teen. 

I didn’t know about the long lonely years ahead of me. 

And I certainly didn’t know how profoundly sad an empty bedside can be. 

I finished vacuuming and as I turned, I imagined one brief, glance of the those boots returning to their spot. I brushed away a tear. Just as  I have a thousand times before over the last two years.

What’s gone is gone, forever. 

As I finished cleaning, I couldn’t help but wonder how many wives were muttering under their breath this morning as they tripped over a pair of combat boots. 

Or how many husbands were grumbling because their wife bought more garden plants.

It’s so easy to be annoyed by those things; to roll our eyes and shake our heads.

The inconvenience, the cost, the clutter. And why do your combat boots need to be there? Why can’t you put them away? And really who needs that many flowers in their garden? I don’t want to have to be the one to water them all.

It is only after they are gone that we realize their true value.

Gone.

In one heartbreaking instant.

This morning stop for a moment and look around you. Take it all in— the combat boots, the laundry, the dirty dishes, the phone that buzzes at the worst time possible, the plant assortment in the yard.

Stop and think about what it all represents. 

Appreciate it. 

Savor it. 

Now, while you still can, before it becomes but a memory. 

And as you do, know just how fortunate you are to have it. Every annoying, ordinary, lovely bit of it. 

Because someday you might just find yourself like I was this morning, standing by the bed with nothing but your memories, longing for the musty smell of sweaty socks and boot leather on a pair of combat boots that will never be worn again.

Be grateful for those combat boots in your way. 

You truly will miss them when they are gone.

More than you could possibly ever imagine.