I'm tired, Neil.

I'm tired, Neil.  Bone tired.  My legs hurt this weekend, I'm so tired.  I guess that's normal.  My mom's been helping a lot, but then there's the dogs.  First one, then the other, then a kid, then another.  Then I have to run an errand or do laundry, or take care of something for you.  It hurts my legs.  My eyes burn all the time now. 

A couple days after you died, maybe even the next day - why can't I remember this now? - my stomach turned on me.  I was standing out by S's yard, pulling weeds and crying, and I thought I was going to fart.  Instead, a little poop came out.

You were the only person in the world I could have ever texted and told them I just sharted.  Man, you have no idea how badly I wanted to text you that I'd just had to change my underwear.  Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that you sent that very same message to me?  I had the hardest time convincing myself that you weren't going to respond to the text.  That the only person who would read it is me, after I finally unlocked your phone.

Talking about your phone reminds me of a lot of things.  Like how I had to track down your boss's contact information from Tom, because I had no way of getting a hold of him.  I sent the messages at noon on Sunday.  He didn't call me back until 9:00 that night.  At the time I thought "how odd, he's not checking his messages?" 

A week after your funeral I was sitting in the Tahoe in a parking lot and your tech support guy called me to help me unlock the Blackberry.  That fucking phone that was so hard to operate, that had a password I didn't know.  He helped me unlock it, helped me figure out how to use it.  I told him I didn't want to hear it jingle anymore, he seemed to get it.

I was still listening to him with one ear when I opened the folder with text messages.  There was mine, from 1:15 on Saturday.

We r on our way home.

Then there was Jesse's message from Sunday at 2:00.

Hey buddy, just got an email from Heather.  Is everything OK?

No.  It was not.

I think a lot about that Saturday morning.  I told my therapist I've had the feeling that I'm trying to spook myself and after I explained it to her she said she thinks I'm just trying to connect with you those last few minutes.  That made sense, I haven't been as scared since then.  I was never really scared, just sad.

Remember how we explained to the kids that Grammy J died because she'd gotten really old?  And that after people get very old, then they die?  Well, one night at bedtime, the first week you were gone, the boys started asking me questions.

I think it was C who asked if you were really old?  I said no, he wasn't very old.  I could hear their wheels spinning.  Well if dad wasn't very old, why did he die? 

Last night at bedtime C was asking a lot of questions about Delta Force guys.  How do they stay safe? Does anything bad ever happen to them? Do they ever get hurt? Do the bad guys ever win? I have no idea how to answer those questions now.  The problem is the truth is very scary for them.  Sometimes bad things happen to good people.  Sometimes young people die.  Sometimes moms and dads die, even before grandmas and grandpas.  If dad could die, then mom could too.

I can't explain it to them, Neil, how you died.  Why you died.  It'll be so many years before I can explain that to them and be sure they can understand it, that it won't shatter them.  It's also why I'm super protective of nosy neighbors and busybody "friends" who just want the gory details.  If your own children don't know those details, then they don't need to know either.  This is probably an irrational feeling, but it's what I have right now.

Oh, that reminds me.  Remember your old boss, H, who would sell you down the river just as soon as look at you but who pretended to really care about you?  Yeah, he took it upon himself to notify our insurance agent that you'd died.  By the time I got around to calling our agent, he'd already started a claim on your life insurance policy, thanks to H.  He's running for public office this year.  He'll make a lovely politician.

I miss talking to you, Neil.