September 27, 2023
It feels like it though. September 27, 2021; October 6, 1977; April 23, 2013; January 23, 2015; December 11, 1978; June 2, 1983; the dates go on and on, eventually there will be no more new ones.
But this one is different.
Tiny takes the day off of school. I let her sleep while I drive to his gravesite. I'm not sure why I go - he's not even there. He's still sitting on the mantle. Nobody really believes me when I say that he goes with me. He always does. I polish his stone, put down some flowers and talk to the windmill. It's a blue one we got from the dollar store, and sometimes I ask him to make it stop spinning or spin it really hard if he's there. He always does - even when nothing else is moving.
When I leave I always cry harder and tell him goodbye. He always says "I'm coming with you," and catches up to hold my left hand. It's always my left hand - not because he needs the brace anymore, but because he knows that's where I look for him, so that's where he is. Nobody believes me about this part either.
We take a card and treats to the hospice center. It wasn't their fault he died. They helped us do it well. I'm mad at a lot of things, but not the hospice center.
We drive home and pick up our kid. Today she's decided we are going to stop for apple cider donuts at the orchard, and the Midtown Global Market for Scandinavian pastries and Greek baklava. She remembers both of those things with her dad Noah is at work so we call Kaia and see if she wants to join us. She does.
We stop at the orchard to get donuts, but the donut machine is broken. I ask Tiny - "What would Rick Hirsch do?" She says he'd give her a caramel apple for breakfast instead. I hate that she is right, and I buy the caramel apple.
We talk to Jason in the car, and head to Minneapolis to pick up Kaia. We all make a vow to all try something new at the market in Rico's honor. We don't.
Kaia eats a poke' bowl, Tiny has pizza, and I go for mac and cheese.
In our defense, both the Greek place and the Scandinavian place are closed.
But Kaia remembers something important.
On the very last day before his brain surgery, she and Rico went to the mall to get him a good pillow. They stopped at the global market for lunch where they ate god-knows-what, but finished with a dessert from the Morraccan stand - oranges soaked in rosewater and cinnamon. We decide to make that our new experience. I remember him talking about this even when he was nearly delirious. He said it was the most incredible flavor - and he couldn't describe it. Neither can I - but Tiny can.
"It tastes like a face mask," she says. "Not necessarily a bad face mask, just a face mask." That's the closest any of us can come to a description.
We take Kaia back to school, and Tiny and I head off to the mall for Boba tea.
We see Ann Taylor stores at the mall - multiple. Every time I do, I go in. Rico was the CFO for Ann Taylor before I met him. He used to tell me stories about box seats at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and how he took the company public, and free clothes, and long hours and how one time he thought he knew how to speak Spanish so went running down the halls of the office congratulating everyone in español, only to learn he was shouting nonsense. Every time I see an Ann Taylor store I go in and say his name. I will always say his name. But this time Tiny is with me, and believe it or not, actually fits into these clothes. His baby - our kid fits into these adult clothes, so we buy her a shirt. She totally pulls it off.
We buy a suitcase - we need a small one because we have decided to take Rico's ashes to Abbey Road and we don't want to check our luggage and lose him in Yugoslavia or something.
We head home - we have to, because I have somewhere to be at 8:05.
Michael calls. Do you know Michael? He is a good friend of Rico's who is now my very best friend. He asks if I want company. I say yes. I cannot tell the story if there is nobody there to hear it.
He drives me to the cemetery again. He has flowers too - the exact same kind I brought. We watch the moon rise over the woods nearby, before we drive away.
We are heading back to the hospice center. I don't go in. Instead we walk the path around it. I tell him the story of that day, that night. He nods patiently and holds my hand. He knows the story. He's done this before.
At 8:05 I stand outside and watch the light from his room flicker. I can hear the Beatles playing in my head and know that if he got to choose how to go, that's exactly what he would have picked - all of his kids knowing they're loved, saying goodbye to his good friends, wrapped up in my arms, listening to the Beatles. I know he chose that moment. But it still breaks my heart.
I bury my head in Michael's shoulder and the tears do not stop. He holds on tight. Rico was the bravest man I know, but Michael is the strongest. He holds my love for Rico as sacred space.
We walk the path again, Michael holds my right hand, Rico my left. Nobody believes this either.
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