As I write this week’s effort, I am two days shy of the first anniversary of my husband’s death. To commemorate the occasion, I want to share with you the very best gift he’s ever given me. I hope it helps someone out there.
Troy loved spoiling me, and one of his favorite days to do so was historically my least favorite. The man loved making a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. He would get me flowers, always unique and technicolor in spectacular vibrancy. He knew how much I love a lot of color in my world.
Since I didn’t like Valentine’s Day until Troy came around, I wasn’t expecting to be affected much by that particular first milestone of his absence. I went to bed the night before, the regular size and shape of grief tucked into my heart’s backpack, awaiting to wake for just another day.
It started with me walking up to Troy. He looked like the photos I had seen of him in the days after he shaved his head (baldness was coming for him), but before he had laser eye surgery and dental veneers—he’d lived in Southern California, after all. He was sitting in a low tree, a bit out of place in a red stone desert scene. We talked for a minute, and the conversation was of apology and regret. He wished he could have done better. He stressed so much because he couldn’t be “good enough” for me. I told him I loved him, and that I didn’t want to hurt him. Then I turned my back and started walking away.
With that, in very Troy fashion, I heard a dirt bike fire up, blow past me, and skid out in front of me on the trail. As I looked up at him, it was as though someone snapped a finger and, in a very Wizard of Oz fashion, the whole world around us went to technicolor. Troy suddenly looked like the man I married, but absolutely beaming with light.
We sat in the same tree as earlier, holding hands as we always did, and this conversation was all about love and joy. He sent love to his parents, friends, and all who mourn his loss. He told me how proud he is of me. He told me he can’t miss me because he is always close, and that the love he feels is more unconditional, rather than romantic, now. I asked him what he does now, and he said, “I make music. I help people. I spend time outside. I do what I would have done, and live how I would have lived, if the struggles of life hadn’t been so heavy.” I asked him all I wanted to know and he told me. I felt the familiar warmth that his close presence always gave me. It was “us,” but better. It was precious, pure, and so very vibrant. I woke up and did a watercolor and ink painting in case I forgot anything. I had to take a photo and adjust nearly all the settings so it looked even remotely like what I had just seen.
Call it a dream or a visit or a coincidence. I’m not trying to change your thoughts on life or death or what happens after. I just thought maybe it would bring other people with a backpack full of grief a little bit of comfort to know that on Valentine’s Day 2024, nearly 9 months after his death, my sweet husband still managed to get me those technicolor flowers.
Sara Middleton is a freelance columnist and Founder/Executive Director/Resident Artist of Studio Sol Art Outreach & Creative Space in Eagle Grove, Iowa. Email her at sara.studiosol@gmail.com or find Studio Sol on Facebook or Instagram.
