Coping With Loss

On Father’s Day, I hold the wristwatch—a stain­less steel Bell & Ross—and notice the delayed clicks of the white sec­ond hand. My thumb moves in cir­cu­lar motions across the water­proof glass. I’m sur­prised by its weight. Erik, my 29-year-old hus­band, pleaded with me for this expen­sive watch, but I said, “You know we can’t afford that right now.” We were sav­ing money to buy our first house in over-priced Marin County, California. “Hyla, he’s going to give it to me for one-third the cost.” Oh, Erik. “Why do I have to be the one who has to say no?” Erik put me in charge of our finances after he’d accepted that his impetu­ous spend­ing habits weren’t help­ing us save. We were newly preg­nant with our sec­ond...

I walk out of the closet, my arms full of Erik’s shirts, all still on hang­ers. My 8-month-pregnant belly acts as a shelf, enabling me to carry more. “I hope you’re alright with this,” I say to my brother, Troy. “That you don’t think it’s weird I’m giv­ing you Erik’s stuff.” I pile the shirts on top of my bed, the white plas­tic hang­ers clink­ing together like falling domi­noes. “No, I don’t think it’s weird, as long as you’re fine, as long as you feel ready,” Troy holds up a navy blue button-down. “This one will def­i­nitely fit.” “Erik would be really happy you had these, I’m sure of it.” It hasn’t even been three weeks since the blood trick­led down the side of my husband’s mouth on Easter ...

Tatiana clings to me, her legs wrapped beneath my 9-month preg­nant belly, while the other Marin Day School tod­dlers push balls, rakes, minia­ture vac­u­ums, and each other around in the out­door play area of the preschool. Pri­mary col­ored toys are scat­tered everywhere—many of which Erik had cleaned only two months before, when he donated his time to Tatiana’s school to make some “minor repairs.” Erik was sup­posed to fix a cou­ple of loose locks over a week­end, but the teach­ers returned to a new gar­den of pot­ted flow­ers, re-stained benches and sand­box, and a large rain­bow play-structure that had been flipped and scrubbed from bot­tom to top. When he walked through the metal gate to bring Tatiana there the next day, the...

I give Troy the bur­gundy vel­vet bag that con­tains Erik’s ashes. “Do you mind hold­ing them? I may need to run down to the beach by myself.” “I’ll put them in my back pack.” Troy rests the gray sack by his feet and slides the ashes in. He starts to zip up the back­pack, but pauses. “Jeanette, I might be able to fit yours in, too.” Jeanette hugs her pine box closer to her chest. “No, I want to hold him. Hayden’s fine right here.” My mother-in-law, Jeanette, has held on to her husband’s ashes for 17 years now. When we talked about scat­ter­ing Erik’s ashes, she said, “We’ll scat­ter them together. It’s never felt right to do it before, but it feels right now. Erik can be with his daddy. They can finally be ...

I walked in slow-motion towards Erik’s closed, mahogany casket. The old stone chapel was filled with famil­iar faces. There were faces from Sky­walker Ranch and other Lucas par­ties, faces I had pho­tographed in my stu­dio, faces from my bridal shower, my wed­ding, and Tatiana’s birth. I kept my head down. As the preg­nant widow, all eyes were on me, but I did not want to be seen. Direct eye con­tact would break me open in a way that I would not be ready to be bro­ken open for years. Dressed in an ankle-length mater­nity skirt, long-sleeve black shirt, and the com­fort­able three-inch heels that had taken me hours to find just the day before, I sat in the front pew. My brother, Troy, and his wife, Jen, sat next to me. Only ten feet ...

I stretched out on the green vel­vet couch, my legs rest­ing in Carlyn’s lap. My statue of Quan Yin, the God­dess of Com­pas­sion, hov­ered above us, on the fire­place man­tle. Quan Yin was peace­ful and wise—exactly what I strived to be—her stone arms out in front of her, her hands open wide. The light from the can­dles illu­mi­nated Carlyn’s long, curly brown hair. Her green eyes con­nected with mine. We were present, no lies between us, no false pretense. Car­lyn spoke softly. “I keep see­ing his face … Erik’s face.” I stared at her, blankly, and said nothing. “Over your shoul­der, his eyes look­ing at me. Do you see him like that?” “No,” I told her. “I haven’t seen him or felt him since just a cou­ple of...