A Death in the Ex-Family

The late spring sun casts uneven shadows across her dining room table. She sits near the phone, expecting his call, with once warm tea her only companion. She's been a widow for 35 years. She's told herself she never wanted a companion during this time and maybe that was true. But today, with the warm summer evenings still weeks away, she feels alone. Even though she's lived in this upscale retirement community home for 20 years, she's never really moved in. There was no way to move in. How does one fit the contents of a Pacific Heights mansion into a nice but relatively small home? You don't. So you either let go or become a pack rat and try to cram in everything you can. Sure, she sold the velvet wall covers, but how could she part with such classical furniture. Maybe someday she would move back into such an elegant mansion or one of her daughters would need it. No, there was no way she cold sell that stuff. She kept photos in a totally unorganized fashion and they could be found scattered throughout the house. She kept her late husband's fishing rods from the 60s. Kept his tools. Kept some of his shirts. Basically she kept everything and even though money was not a problem, seldom updated items. Witness the 15inch non cable ready TV in the living room. Good enough to watch 60 minutes and an occasional Charlie Rose. Her mom died seven years ago at the age of 99. No one much cared, it was a small affair. Her oldest daughter came to the cemetery to watch the urn placed away. The daughter brought along he ex husband, she always liked him ok. It was three years later that her oldest daughter died too, ashes spread into the Pacific, at a special spot her husband used to drive the young family too. Drive them in that god awful pink Cadillac convertible, singing songs, waiting for the one way tunnel to open. Her youngest daughter made a heart in the sand on that day three years ago and said goodbye to her older sister. Her youngest daughter, in effect, had said goodbye to both of them years earlier. So, now her she sat, not sure what to do, waiting and not waiting for a phone call. The phone finally rings and it is her oldest daughter's ex husband, calling on her birthday, like he always did. But he can't talk long it seems, need to rush out with his new family. Promises to call again, tomorrow. He does, but no answer. He calls the next day, still no answer. There will never be an answer for she has died. Age? Plenty. _I first saw Berdeen on my wedding day, she sat in the back of the reception hall and stood up to give us a toast. She seemed warmed and pleasant, nothing like the impression I received from my then wife, her oldest, now deceased daughter. _ _I knew Berdeen for 16 years. I can't say I liked her all that much, but she wasn't all that bad to talk to from time to time. And after Mimi's death in December 2001 I spoke with her twice a year. On the birthday and on the death day. Berdeen was the only person I could really talk to about Mimi, partly this is my fault, but mainly this is because we were both on somewhat equal footing. Not trying to comfort each other. Not afraid to talk about it. Maybe in a more selfish way, by talking about Mimi and her death, we were secretly telling each other we didn¡¯t blame each other. To let go of the guilt. To acknowledge to Mimi was amazing, but flawed. As we all are. _ _I will miss Berdeen. I will miss the connection to Mimi's family. But we are all big boys now, aren't we? _