when

If somewhere in the universe, there is a magical portal, a time traveling device - then somewhere in the universe, Rico and I exist and we still have seven days left.

A whole week.

What if we had known that the surgeon wasn't being completely transparent? 

What if we had known that it wouldn't be five years, or two, or even one?

What if we knew that on May 12, we would be separated, and neither one of us would ever be the same again?

What would we have done differently?

I imagine all kinds of things - for him, for our kids.  

Maybe we would have all ditched school and work and flown to Hawaii so it was the last thing he remembered before they scooped out his ability to travel.

Maybe we would have taken one last road trip - probably to Casey Key, so he could tell me exactly where he wanted his rock to be placed.

Maybe we would have hopped a Greyhound to Chicago - just him and I - staying in the Hotel Blake, holding hands in the rain as we ran to Harold's fried chicken shack, slow dancing in a crowded pub. This is what I would have picked - finishing things exactly the same way they started.

But none of those things happened.  We thought we had time. But in hindsight, we did exactly what we needed to do.

We had family dinners and played board games. We had tickle fights on the couch. We laughed outside with the neighbors as we all threw our spring cleaning into a truck loaded for the dump. We compiled every password and just-in-case piece of info we could think of into a binder and made sure I understood as much as I could. We slow danced in the living room and went for walks every night around the park in our backyard. We kissed under the stars in front of the house - the home where we built our family.

We made the right choices - I know we did, so why does it still not seem like enough?

Despite how bright and beautiful and all-encompassing his love was - I was never ready to let go - none of us were.

I still can't let go.

His things are in the shower  - exactly the way he left them - the giant bottle of shampoo that he used  - which just held the remnants of other shampoo bottles (including a bottle of oatmeal fur conditioner for the dogs) - so god knows what was really in there; his razor; the brush he used to scrub his legs because his right was too unstable to do much maneuvering; the teeny little sliver of soap - the last thing he used before we took him to the hospital. It's all still there. I've moved it to clean, but I put it right back - like a tiny shower shrine, in case he still needs it.

His cologne is still on the counter.

I pay for his phone to stay turned on.

His socks are still in the drawer. I can't quite bring myself to cut up his t-shirts for a quilt, because that will mean he's not coming home to wear them.

His ashes are on the mantle. They almost took a tumble during an intense game of indoor balloon volleyball, but we apologized profusely and then realized, that he probably wanted in on the game anyway.

The lemonade bottle is still in the fridge. The lemonade he asked me to buy last June - the empty bottle that would have expired in October anyway - it's still there. When I open the fridge, he still lives here  - but so do the tears.

My friend Alisa used to say "Bad things will happen to you, trouble is a part of life, you can move through it, you can visit it whenever you want - but don't dwell there."

Don't dwell there.

But I do - I live here - with him. It was all I ever wanted was to be with Rico. I don't know when I can ever let go of plastic bottles and worn out socks.