A Smiling Young Widow

This week some of the wild turkeys that live behind our house stopped by the yard. When we moved into this house it was a very common conversation with friends and family to talk about what wildlife lived in behind us. Deer, the odd bear, and wild turkeys. That was a conversation starter. And Tom had this one story he would literally always share at this point about how dangerous turkeys could actually be. It became such a joke between us, sharing this knowing look before the story launched again, and I’d roll my eyes as I heard it for what felt like the hundredth time. Sometimes I’d be the one to start the story, “Oh well Tom actually has a story from when a friend of his was hunting..” and then he’d launch into it. 

I remember the first time I had a conversation with someone about wildlife behind our house after Tom died. It was time for the turkey anecdote and, despite how many times I’d poked fun at his retelling of this story, I couldn’t remember the exact details at the end. What part of the turkey was it that could cut you so easily? 

It’s another weirdness of losing my person – we were writing this life full of stories together, and I expected we’d get to share them jointly for a really long time. That level of knowing someone so well that you know their stories is special. Tom had such a gift for storytelling. I appreciated that when he was alive and miss it a lot now. I could have been with him for the same experience, yet would never tell the story as good as Tom (or we’d at least need to tag-team it).

I’ve had a couple people ask me what the most helpful thing anyone did for me after Tom died was. My immediate answer was, honestly nothing can really help. Then I thought about it a bit more and changed my answer – it was stories. It still is. Obviously there were so many thoughtful things people did for me after he died and I don’t mean to come across as ungrateful for anything, but stories held and do hold the power to keep my Tom alive. 

Hearing stories about our relationship or how Tom had thought of me was huge. That feels almost selfish to say, but also is pretty justified that I needed it. Any words that could remind me of how much love there was. A friend sharing that they’d never seen Tom smile so big until he was with me. Someone telling me about something we had inspired them to do. An old coworker recounting how Tom had talked about our first date (it happened after they’d all been out for more than a few drinks the night before, I didn’t learn until much further down the line that I had fallen for a very hungover Tom!)  

I’ve shared before how you question everything in a sudden loss like this. The relationship Tom and I had felt shattered, as all of a sudden it’s just me left here trying to make sense of it. Us humans are mirrors, we see ourselves in relation to others. 

I hadn’t really noticed this before Tom died, but to anyone who knows me just through Tom I’m Les. I don’t at all mind being called that, but I’ve never been in the habit of introducing myself that way. Tom always would though. Or if he was talking about me at work or with his friends, I was always Les. Now when I talk to people who only know me through Tom, I’ll hear “his” Les come through in a conversation or in a text. It’s like the smallest thing that can be a reminder or reassurance to me. Oh yeah we did exist. That amazing Tom and Les relationship was actually real. People that stemmed from that still keep in touch with me (very appreciated). 

Since right after he died, I’ve worried I’ll forget things about Tom and our lives together. And I absolutely will. There’s grief for that. The stories that were just the two of ours to hold. The ones that won’t unfold now as we won’t grow old together. The memories that will fade.

Tom had the best memory. My memory sucks – it’s a joke in my family that I shouldn’t have been taken anywhere as a kid because I don’t remember it. Tom was the one who was way better at remembering details in our life together (maybe why Tom would rarely take pics – he could remember it all on his own, whereas I need to look back for reminders). 

I first started blogging as a way to preserve some of these stories. I’ve wrote about some Tom-isms, like the FAF. Or I was just thinking about his moo. Tom wasn’t exactly an animated cheerleading type, but the odd time when a woo would have been appropriate, he would say this quiet moo. I can’t at all remember why that started – likely to poke fun at me or my sister – but now I hear that moo in my head whenever there’s something Tom would have been excited about. 

I’m constantly hit with reminders of little jokes or moments we shared. It can be small things, like eating mini eggs means taking medicine. It was surprisingly Tom who got Covid first in our household, and it was right over Easter weekend. He spent a couple days in bed resting up and crushed a big bag of mini eggs, saying that was the medicine he needed. Or the wisdom that if you’re thirsty and hungry at the same time, well Tom would say it’s time to have cereal as a snack. 

Whenever I get the hiccups now I think how Tom should be running to “save” Frank, as he gets so scared of me when I hiccup. I remember one walk we were on where I got the hiccups halfway through and had to just carry-on (I can only get rid of them with water). Well Frank wouldn’t walk anywhere near me, so Tom took his leash and made me walk well behind them for the rest of it. 

There’s a beer at our local brewery called Rude Blonde – whenever I see it I think of Tom’s groaner when he was choosing cans to take home and was like, “oh well I don’t need to bring home the Rude Blonde, I’ve already got one of those waiting for me.” (insert eye roll!) 

I was thinking about our last weekend together when I had fallen asleep on the couch (that sounds very anti-social of me as we still had company, but it was kind of quiet time in the visit!) I opened my eyes and looked at Tom across the room. He said something cute. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but I’ll never forget that feeling of what passed between us as my eyes opened and connected with his. You can’t put that into words. 

Absolutely I do still fear what memories will fade as the years continue on. However I do find comfort in the fact that I will never forget how Tom made me feel and the gift of what we were in each other’s lives.

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

― Maya Angelou

I will forever love hearing others talk about Tom. It might be stories that I wasn’t there for, like the “Did Tom ever tell you about this one?”. Quick comments from people who had never met Tom but remind me of a story I’d told them about him. Conversations about what Tom would say about something going on now or what he would be poking fun at.

Recently our little nephew shared, “People in heaven must be handsome because Uncle Tom was very very very very (etc) handsome!” Agreed.

Little moments where someone else brings up Tom still offer so much to me, and I’m sure to the many other people who are missing him too. I’m thankful for everyone who is keeping this amazing man alive in different ways. Stories shared over coffee, in a text or card, on a phone call – they all still hold so much power to help along this grief journey.

After Tom died we started this memorial board full of stories – I hope it will continue to be added to and bring little bits of joy and comfort to many.