Death Of Spouse

Last month, I had the honor of read­ing in “The Mama Mono­logues” at Corte Madera Book Pas­sage, along with NY Times best-selling author Kelly Cor­ri­gan and many other tal­ented Writ­ing Mamas. Spe­cial thanks to Dawn Yun, founder of The Writ­ing Mamas, for mak­ing this laugh­ter and tear-filled event pos­si­ble. We raised over $5,000 for Abelina Mag­ana, a North­ern Cal­i­for­nia mother of three who was shot 15 times and lived to tell. If you would like to make a con­tri­bu­tion to Abelina and her chil­dren, all of whom are still very much in need of our help, please send a check to: Attn: The Mag­ana Fam­ily Fund, Bank of Marin, 1450 Grant Avenue, Novato, 94945. Please enjoy this video of my piece, “You Think You Know,”...

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...

  A friend of mine recently asked me, “Do you ever have sex with Evan and imag­ine, just for a moment, that you’re hav­ing sex with Erik instead?” Nor­mal thing to won­der about a remar­ried widow, I suppose. Actu­ally, I love that she asked me this. But the answer is NO. Never have I imag­ined, in the heat of pas­sion, that Evan was Erik. I did, how­ever, imag­ine that other men I dated were Erik. Of course I wanted them to be Erik. When you watch your 29-year-old hus­band slide down the kitchen counter and die, there is a cer­tain amount of denial that comes along with the territory. Like star­ing at the door. Wait­ing for the knob to turn. Erik, you home? Nope. Not home. Or com­pletely vacat­ing your preg­nant body...

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...

My body is as still as a corpse while my obste­tri­cian shaves the rest of my pubic hair, so that she can neatly slice my womb open. I stare at my right hand, into the dark eyes of the black and white pho­to­graph I am hold­ing of my hus­band, Erik. I study his black hair, his defined jaw, his young 29-year-old skin, prob­ing his face for answers, but the pic­ture has no reply. He should be here. How can he not be here for Keira’s birth? Instead, my mom posi­tions her­self to the right of the steel oper­at­ing table, a piece of her curly black hair stray­ing from her cap. Mom speaks in a whis­per. “I am going to be next to you the whole time.” She lightly inter­twines her fin­gers with mine, leav­ing enough space for Erik’s...