The tears start a fallin’. I don’t think that’s a real quote or anything. I just made it up. Y’all could start using it a lot, though, if you want, tell everyone where you got it from, spread it around like herpes in assisted living, and I could almost be famous. Sorry, that was inappropriate. But I did make myself laugh, and I really kind of needed to laugh.

I had to run an errand this morning. And it took me near my old neighborhood, the one where Ash and I purchased our first home. And I thought, let’s have a little looksie, see how the place is doing. (Looked pretty shitty, actually, yard was in shambles, if Ash had a grave, he’d certainly be rolling in it.) Now, I have driven by my old house plenty of times since Ash’s untimely departure from our lives. So I was not expecting to feel any kind of sad, lonely or nostalgic feelings nor have so many memories pulled from the dusty recesses of my over stimulated and under caffeinated brain. But, of course, shit never goes the way we think it will and it did, indeed, give me all kinds of feels and pull out all kinds of memories.

Ash and I moved back to my small little beach town after birthing a bouncing baby boy that neither one of us could figure out how to make work – work as in stop crying, peeing, pooping, never sleeping when it’s time to sleep, just all the things that babies do (or don’t). So I found a little jobby job and told him I was out, leaving Texas, going back to NC where my family is so that they can help me figure out how to make the baby work. Or at least give me a little break when I was at my wits end with the said working of the said baby. Luckily, Ash came with me, otherwise, this would be a whole different story. Or no story at all.

Anyway, we moved in with my poor, unsuspecting brother – Ash, me, nonworking baby and quite cute albeit super bitchy brown dog. I know what you’re thinking, “her brother probably lived in a mansion.” Incorrect. 3 bedroom/2 bathroom beach box. Maybe 900 square feet. And that sweet man moved out of his master bedroom so that Ash and I could move in. And he shared a wall with a 4 month old that didn’t conquer sleeping through the night for months to come. I guess I should be more forgiving of big brother when I feel he’s too hard on that now 13 year old that sleeps through the night, morning and afternoon on occasion. (Props to me – I made the baby work – perhaps a little too well.) We stayed in this tiny house for a little more than a year, just all cozy and cramped together, when we decided it was time to buy something of our own with perhaps maybe a little more space.

It took some time but we found what I dubbed my dream home. The first time I drove by it, I swear, angels sang. And I told Ash “that’s the one”. Alas, we couldn’t afford it. So we looked at more shit that would never compare with “The One”. I’m sure there were plenty of fights and arguments because when weren’t there plenty of fights and arguments (generally when one is diagnosed with terminal cancer, the fights and arguments stop pretty quickly – if you were wondering) and then one day, I was scouring the MLS and my dream home’s price had been reduced. Still couldn’t afford it really but we did that thing that all young couples do that say we’ll stop going out to eat and we won’t go on vacation and we will wear the same shoes for the next 28 years and we bought the damn thing. Side note – my dream home had downstairs living quarters so Uncle G got to come, too. Until we had another baby and then he said fuck this place and fuck them kids. Just kidding. He would never say that. But he did move out.)

That was a really long story that I did not intend on being that long, but, again, nostalgia. So I drive by the house today and I accidentally came to a full stop in front of it. And I just cried. We created so many goddamn memories in that thing. I could see Jack’s little toddler head in his bedroom window when I stopped (not really, that would be super creepy – let me rephrase, I could see the memory of Jack’s little toddler head in his bedroom window). Let me preface this to say, the “seeing” is of the memories but to get to the point, I “saw” a lot of shit. Countless front yard baseball games. The time I surprised Ash with a riding lawn mower and Ash and I fought over who go to ride it first. Bringing Colt home from the hospital after he was born. The time Jack put his “cookware” in the oven and I didn’t know it and turned it on only to completely melt his “cookware”. All the Friday night dance parties in the living room. The time Ash and I built a patio together with our bare hands and didn’t kill each other in the process. The kids swinging and sliding their lives away with big smiles on their faces. All the times Colt stood and sat in his water table instead of playing with toys in it – he became the toy in it. The time Ash locked me out of our house and I almost called the police. The time he locked me out of our bedroom so I kicked a hole in the door. The countless hours of Mario Kart and rap parties and laughing that took place after the kids went to bed. The family snuggles in the bed and on the couch and everywhere in between. Sitting in the office and dreaming up Turf’s Up together, bouncing nonstop ideas off of each other, countless notepads with said ideas strewn across the floor. Our first Christmas in our first home. The time I found out I was pregnant at the same time Ash started getting sick and me thinking he was just stealing my thunder. Such a delight, I am. That sickness eventually making it so that our dream home was too much to keep up with and leading to its eventual sale.

Seemed like such a simpler time, ironically. I know it wasn’t. I know it’s time playing tricks on me, as it always does. But all the good we did there, all the fun we had there, it certainly trumps any of the hardships, fights, tears and dog shit on the floor. And I felt that this morning.

Recently, I’ve been accused (for lack of a better term) of refusing to let Ash go, not moving on with my life. And in my head, my initial reaction was “fuck you, lose your spouse at 37, see how you feel. Oh that’s right, you didn’t you old fucking coot.” Don’t worry, I didn’t say any of that. Until right now, that is. But the ones who have said it are not entirely wrong. Of course I am not letting go of Ash. I will never let go of him. He was my husband, my childrens’ father, my best friend at times and my worst enemy at others. If I let go of him, who will hang on to him. How will his children know everything great about him and everything that wasn’t so great about him? How can they develop into men if they don’t know the man that brought them into this world, the man that had so many hopes for them, the man that should still be with them today. It is my job to keep him alive. It is my job to hang onto him, to let his children really know him, to understand who he was – the good things, the weird things, the flawed things, the awful things, the funny things. You get the point. All of it. So no, I will never let go of Ash. Ever. Because he deserves a life even if he can’t be here to be a part of it. And his children deserve to know him even if it’s not him showing them who he was.

And as far as my heart goes, he has a permanent residence in it. And yes, I admit, it is easier to hang onto him than risk losing someone else. And I do not do vulnerability well (unless I’m writing apparently) and I do not let people in easily. And honestly, I have not met many who deserve to be let in. The world is crazy, y’all. And I have entertained love again, dalliances with it if you will. And one day maybe I’ll be strong enough to really let go, to really love again. But I’m also ok with where my life is. With my children. With my family. With my friends. I’m not scared to be alone. Because I am not alone.