At 62

The roads on Prince of Wales Island are curvy. That’s actually kind of an understatement. After twenty minutes of driving, I always laugh and wonder why they didn’t add in some straightaways just to break the monotony? These roads are fun to drive, and they keep you alert and engaged!

Mike always said he’d put me at the wheel in any city in America. After 42 years in Houston, I had traffic down, and was (mostly) unflappable. But crooked country roads were his domain, and he winced every time I drove them. I had a blast, hugging every curve, zipping around the bends. Mike fussed at the wear and tear on the tires, the suspension, all the extra damage that too many curves did to a vehicle.

Mike taught me how to straighten out the road.

It was simple. Just pretend the road is straight. Cross the center line. Watch for oncoming traffic and blind curves. Always have an escape route. And go straight down the middle, turning as little as you can. Use the downward hill motion to propel you up the next hill. Watch out for deer and bears. And always look as far as you can up the road.

Kind of a nice metaphor for life, when you think about it.

Mike scolded me from time to time about my lack of situational awareness. Straightening out the road enhanced my ability to be aware of my surroundings and what was happening in front of me, as far as I could see. You can’t drive in a mental fog and straighten out the road.

It does look a bit odd if you’re following me. Michael picked up a hitchhiker last year. They were following behind me in another vehicle, and the guy kept asking why the rig in front of them didn’t stay in its own lane. Mike said he choked back laughter and said he didn’t know – driver was probably drunk! Thanks, dear.

POW roads are different every time I drive them. The light, shadow, mist, sun – all change the views and the landscape. Mountains are often hidden from view. The days that it feels like I can see forever are magical, with the sun glinting off distant water and small islands. One of my favorite vistas has no place to stop and take a photo. Mike grumbled about that every time we passed it. But somehow that made it more special. It can’t be easily captured. It’s simply there to enjoy.

We make our own rules when we straighten out the road. Mike and I were masters of that. We both had rules we followed – rules we kept religiously – but we both felt that other rules were made to be broken when needed. I always found it interesting that Mike’s rule-breaking applied mostly to situations, while mine mostly applied to institutions.

We amazed each other with our ability to change and bend the rules to fit our needs. I challenged the medical and business community, while Mike just accepted it. He couldn’t quite believe the results I achieved, and it was something he would never have done. I was sometimes shocked by his sheer audacity about life. He seemed fearless, even when he wasn’t sure of the outcome. The “good girl” in me would never have taken some of those chances! Together, Mike and I could take on anything that life threw our way – and we did.

We taught each other new ways of straightening out life’s roads. Mike learned to question and push back against institutions, and I learned to just flat go for it in my daily life. The worst that could happen is that we got a no – or we failed. Then it was time to start again, try something new, keep figuring it out.

Straightening out the road. It’s a good skill to learn, and I thank you, Michael. Seems there’s always another curve ahead…at 62.

As Mike could have told you – when something’s on my mind, I’m a worrier. I fret and natter out loud about anything and everything that bothers me – half under my breath. I make lists and plans and I try my darndest to know what my future holds. When I’m really down, I do online puzzles and games for hours, which frustrated Mike to no end.

But since Mike died, I’m different. I’m finding peace in solitude. I like my own company. I laugh less, but I believe it’s because I’m alone much more. I miss Mike with every fiber of my being – and I still cry at the oddest times – but I’m not unhappy. I haven’t opened a video game since he’s been gone. Don’t want to waste the time.

There are so many things I should be worried about. Family and friends who have health issues. Money. Work. Keeping my world running alone. My giant pile of to-do notes. The list is a long one.

But somehow, during this bubble of an Alaskan summer, I’m only finding the space to simply – be. Just sitting on the porch. Turning off my mind and letting the world go by. Going out in the boat. Talking with friends. Reading. Doing needlework. Watching my mountains. Feeling the peace of our summer world wash over me. Merely being.

Mike’s death hit hard in so many ways. When Al died, I learned that I could fix just about anything – but I couldn’t fix death. And I learned it again – in a much different way – with Mike.

Mike was so vital, so full of energy, so alive. We fought this thing together with everything we had. And in the end, we lost the battle.

Suddenly so much that seemed so critical in life just doesn’t have the meaning it once did. That’s not to say there’s no joy in life – there is. But there are things that are important – and those that only seem as though they are. Priorities shift.

After the roller coaster that was Mike’s cancer, after the constant worry, after trying to hide my terror and depression at the potential of losing Mike, after all of the sadness – I need to just be.

I am a person who likes her world under control. So did Mike. We were both Type A control freaks – him, more subtly; me, both subtle and direct.

And now, there are so many things in my life that I have no control over. And instead of agonizing over them and wasting time doing it – I’m just trying to ignore them and be happy. Mike always told me one of his greatest assets was patience. It has never been one of mine. I feel his gentle hand over my mouth daily, telling me to hush and just be patient. Let life unfold. Have peace.

Mike knew, and I knew – Life changes in an instant. I’m working on peace between the storms…at 62.

Mike’s and my adventures in Alaska were the high point of our year. When we weren’t in Coffman Cove, we were planning to be here. Our months in Alaska were something we looked forward to all year long.

I still feel that way. I was nervous about being here alone this year. But I quickly found out that I wasn’t alone at all. I am blessed with friends here, and I never take that for granted.

Mike is also ever-present. I feel him more some days than others, but he’s here. It was his wish that I continue to spend half my year here, for as long as I possibly could. I’m praying that I will have many more years here in our cabin at Powells Place. We’ve built a home and a life here.

Here is a little of what it’s like to live on our island, day to day –

We are blessed in Coffman Cove. We have a small grocery, gas and fuel services, a bar, liquor store, church, post office, school and EMTs. There’s a great little restaurant with takeaway and cute picnic tables – the AK-49. We have boat repair and local saw mills. We have carpenters and general tradesmen, and we have a thriving tourist business in cabin rentals and boat charters. We have a farmer’s market at the school greenhouse. There are places to gather in groups, outdoor pavilions, and a good-sized, well-equipped harbor and docks. Pretty awesome for a town of about 200 year-round residents!

That said, for more services, we drive to Klawock and Craig. That’s about 75 – 90 minutes of highway-speed driving to the closest large grocery and full-service gas station. There’s also a market and hardware store in Thorne Bay, as well as a few other small shops. That’s about 1.5 hours away.

In “town”, as we call Craig, we find government services, the bank, hardware store, outdoor store, car mechanic, auto parts store, gift shop, pharmacy, bakery, several restaurants, medical clinic, liquor store, smoke shop, hair salon and much more. You save up your lists, and you make half a dozen stops every time you head for town. This is definitely a place you need to plan ahead!

We have a Facebook group of Coffman folks. Every time someone goes to town, we send out a note. We’re often shopping for each other on our trips – it’s all part of living and working together in a small community.

Grocery store prices are shocking. There’s just no other word. Anything that gets to this island has to be flown, barged or ferried. A carton of ice cream is $10.50. Kraft salad dressing is $4-5. The sandwich meat I buy at home is double the price here. A package of sliced cheese is $6-9, depending on the market. The seltzer water that’s $0.75 a bottle in Ketchikan is $2.89 here.

Yet, the rippled tin that Mike used for our ceilings is cheaper here on the island. The lumber we buy from our local miller is straighter, cheaper and better quality than anything we can get commercially. And oysters from the local oyster farm are affordable and delicious!

There aren’t any full-service clothing stores here except the thrift shop. No shoe stores. No dry cleaners. No restaurants save sandwiches, fried fish and pizza. Amazon brings most of what we need that we can’t find here, and some folks buy their groceries through the mail from Ketchikan. When we built our addition last year, a lot of the material was barged up from Lowes in Washington state or from the hardware store over in Ketchikan.

For someone who came from the 24/7 world of Houston, it was a shock. It took a minute, but I was fully adjusted to it at the end of my first visit. It’s island time. Nothing happens quickly, and that’s just fine.

I love parties here! They are always potlucks, and these ladies can COOK!! It’s creative cooking, because so many ingredients just aren’t found here. There is a lot of fish, venison, canned goods, homemade bread, jams and jellies. So much good food!

Medical is dicey. There’s a clinic here on the island, and we have an ambulance in Coffman Cove. Mike was part of the team his first year here. There is telemedicine from Seattle, and specialists come up from Seattle every 60 days. That’s how Mike saw his oncologist last summer. There’s a good hospital in Ketchikan, but serious or complicated medical and dental cases are sent to Bellingham or Seattle. Mike and I have air evacuation medical insurance here. It’s a necessity.

That’s just a tiny part of the everyday life here on our island. There’s a caring here, a spirit of community that I’ve never found anywhere else I’ve lived. It’s survival, camaraderie, a pioneer spirit. Kids grow up as kids, in an outdoor world, not at the mall. They learn how to sustain themselves at an early age – fishing, hunting, boating – and they are responsible enough to do most of that on their own as young teenagers. Your character, your sense of humor, and your friendships are what matter, not the price of your clothing or your possessions. It’s a life I love more than I can tell you…at 62.

After three weeks in Coffman Cove, I am proud to say I believe that Michael Powell may have underestimated me.

My husband had set ideas of what I could and could not do. And physically, he was right in many ways. I don’t have his physical strength. And my back and hip aren’t what they used to be. But I’ve found that a large wrench and as much brute force as I can muster will turn a knob as surely as his powerful hands could do.

I’ve been in public broadcasting for 27 years. The common denominator among public radio listeners is education. Life-long learning. Mike and I fit the bill perfectly. He was as curious as I, and we were forever chasing knowledge.

On TV, I found Mike loved documentaries and the History Channel. We were constantly Googling information and figuring out how to make things work. We talked incessantly about politics, current events, our future plans, every subject imaginable. We got a lot of entertainment and laughs from our shared learning experiences!!

In the beginning, Mike was worried that I couldn’t – or wouldn’t – trade 42 years of life in one of the country’s largest cities for life in a couple of the smallest. My friends weren’t sure, either. But I was. I packed up lock, stock and kitty cats, and I’ve never looked back.

Why? I’ve stayed constantly entertained since day one with Mike. I’ve learned so much, and I have so much more to learn! It’s that lifelong learning thing in action.

Putting it in practice, I’m finding that I knew much more than I realized about things like hooking up the cabin water. I knew what should be done, just not how to physically do it. Ditto on winterizing the cabins. I know the process, but not the procedure. But I’m learning both of them.

This summer, I’ve learned about propane appliances, hot water heaters, how to make contrary gas stoves work, and so much more. I’ve cleaned cabins, lifted, hauled and moved countless items, and washed small mountains of bedding. I’ve baited my first hooks with fish, and I’ve learned how to skin them. I’ve washed the innards out of Dungeness crabs, but I have yet to be able to kill one. That’s next.

Mike didn’t think I could run the zero-turn lawn mower in Dover. I’m doing it, along with the weed eater and blower. He didn’t think I could (or should!) run a chain saw. Haven’t done it yet, but I won a dandy one, and I’d like to learn!

Mike wanted me to sell the boat. Didn’t trust me to run her alone. I’ve never done any boating, and I have no skills in that area. I’m not yet confident, but I’m confident I’m learning. And I have a healthy respect for the water!

I found Mike’s go bags in the boat. Things I never would have thought of in case of emergency. Another lesson learned. I may never take her out alone, but I will be confidently parking and driving her by the time I go back South. And I will have learned the two last gaps in my fishing skills – how to tie the hook on the line – and how to filet the fish.

I’m doing all this not only for me, but for Mike. I feel his hands guiding me as I work. I hear his voice telling me what to do. I just magically know things about which I have zero experience or knowledge. Mike’s not here to have fun in person anymore, but I think – I know – he’s in some way doing it through me. And neither or us ever liked to be bored…so I have work to do!

Bottom line, I had too much fun living and learning with Michael Powell to climb on the funeral pyre and mourn. I want to celebrate our lives together, and I want to have as much energy and life in doing it as Mike would.

I wrote on Mike’s tribute – “There was no limit to his sky”. That’s the way I’ve always thought about life. It’s one of the many reasons why we worked so well together.

I’m going to stretch my skill sets as far as I can. There’s still a lot of learning to do…at 62.

There have been times throughout my life when everything crystallizes in a flash. No more fog. Total clarity.

It happened when my mother died. It happened when I became a single mom after Jim and I divorced. And it happened yesterday on the pier in Coffman Cove, Alaska.

I’d gone down to look in the boat for the very first time since last year. Everything was just like Mike and I left it. Except – it wasn’t.

Michael filled that boat with energy last year. She was his baby. He’d looked and looked for the perfect boat all the previous winter, and we bought her sight unseen out of Washington state. Ferried her to the island, and immediately started improving her.

He outfitted her accessories and her fishing gear – the biggest job. I outfitted her galley, berth and cabin. We had a blast putting her together, and we spent as much time on her last year as we could – but it was never enough for either of us.

We only got two overnight trips in her – and both, in true Powell fashion – resulted in funny stories for the memory books. Multiple stories, in fact – we crammed some adventures into those two short trips!

Mike never named her. The first owner had not, and he considered it bad luck to change a boat’s name. So she’s forever to us the C-Dory.

She is empty without Mike. I’ve found most of her pieces scattered throughout the shop and boat, so that I can recreate her set-up. But I can’t recreate that fishing hat, his ready grin and a lifetime of boating skills. I am once again, a total beginner at a brand-new skill.

I shut her door and climbed back on the dock. She was half mine before, and now, she’s solely my floating baby. I started slowly up the ramp, heading to the top of the harbor, and it hit me with total clarity.

I’m doing this. I’m here. In Alaska. In Arkansas. Living my life. The life I wanted, the life I chose, the life Mike and I built. Alone. Mike will forever be with me, but he will be pushing me to make my own mark on this. To take the lessons he taught me and build on them. To make my own twists, to incorporate my skills with his.

Mike can’t physically be here with me, although his spirit is here. He’s in my thoughts and in my heart – but I’m the one who has to make this work. I’m the one who has to learn so many new things. It’s exciting to me. It’s challenging. It gives me something to live for. And it’s what Mike and I set out to do.

He told me all last summer that most women would have been racing home to their mamas after looking at our renovation to-do list, but I’d kept up with him every step of the way. It was one of the best compliments he ever gave me, and he said it over and over.

And honestly, I had the time of my life doing it. Mike and I were exactly alike in so many ways, and this constant need for challenge and knowledge was key for both of us.

I stopped on the dock and looked out over the marsh. Low tide. Lots of sea creatures out of water for a few hours. Some of them make it, some of them don’t. But eventually, the tide comes back, and they’re home again. It’s real.

I’ve done real before. I will do it again…I AM doing it again…at 62.

In 2019, I’m following the trip that Mike took to Coffman Cove on his own for the very first time. Same road, same ferry. In the final process of divorce after being married over half his life, he was setting out into a brand new world. He was going home, following his dream. Michael was starting over at almost 60 years old. In the process, he was leaping off the roof, trusting his cape.

Sitting in the ferry line on Friday, I saw a sign. It was a paw – and the line “who rescued who?” That was us.

Mike and I started as friends. During his long journey from marriage to divorce, I talked him through the grieving stage. In the process, I talked myself through it, too. All the words that I said to Mike about grief and moving forward – it took a minute, but I finally realized they also applied to me.

I had been stuck since Al died. I’d done none of the basic grief work that has to be done in order to get back to life. But in talking with Mike, I realized I was working on myself, too. And I couldn’t coach it without believing it.

I never dreamed that Mike and I would be anything more than friends. But the trust we developed – working through some of the most difficult times we’d ever faced – bound us together slowly but surely into love.

Mike helped me as much as I helped him. He gave me the courage to clean out Al’s closet five years after he died. Mike gave me the courage to just “let it go”, to throw away or sell some of the mountain of family items that were (and are) overwhelming me. In me, Mike broke the generations-long tie to “stuff”. It will never mean the same to me again.

In every phase of my life, Michael gave me the courage to walk to the edge of the roof, put one foot into space, and leap. He was part of my cape – and I knew he’d always catch me – and he knew I’d always catch him. We had each other’s backs.

And here I stand on the edge of the roof again. Heading for Mike’s dream – our dream that we’ve worked so hard on bringing to life. Powell’s Place in Coffman Cove. Praying that I can do this without Mike. Sitting here on the ferry, it’s starting to look familiar. Not quite SE AK yet, but getting close.

Home is just about half a day away. Getting ready to jump. Trusting that cape – and Mike’s waiting arms – at 62.

Excited NOW!!!

That was the text I got from Mike when he was well and truly on top of the world.

I got it when he was sitting on a hill on Prince of Wales Island, watching my ferry go past when I was coming to the island for my very first time.

I got it when we decided to join forces and live the rest of our lives together.

I got it when the planets aligned and we found our home in Dover.

I got it when we were turning on to our mountain road for the very first time, complete with moving vans.

And I got it when he was coming home from Alaska, ready to start our lives together – finally with all of our stuff under the same roof – never dreaming that six short weeks later we would get the cancer diagnosis.

Excited NOW! That’s the feeling I got whenever I saw a text from Mike…when my phone rang and it was Mike…when I got his text messages.

After Mike died, I didn’t think I would ever be excited again. I’ve done a lot of thinking these past two-and-a-bit months. And I’ve decided that’s just plain wrong.

I’ve felt Mike with me from the moment he left this earth. First, it was the incredible peace that suffused me and has never left. Then, it was bits of knowledge, hints that just come to me about specific ways to do things, or tasks that need doing. He’s come to me in energy – that full-out Mike energy that left everyone else breathless in his path.

But I realized that when I spent hours, days railing at what happened to him, to us – he pulled away. I would feel him much less during those times. He wanted no part of it. Mike never liked it when I wasted time. And that kind of grief isn’t productive.

He’s been with me every step of these busy last few weeks, getting ready to go to Alaska. I don’t know what I’ve forgotten, I’m worried about the car, I hope the animals do well on the ferry – and on and on. But that’s MY mind talking. Mike is saying – Relax. You got this. I’m right here with you, every step of the way. He’s laughing. He’s ready to go.

We leave tomorrow morning. I may be crazy to do this, but I’d be crazier if I didn’t. I love the woman Mike Powell brought to life – and so did he. I’m not going to lose her to grief.

Wheels roll in the AM. Excited NOW…at 62.

The questions come more frequently. Why are you going to Alaska this summer without Mike? Why would you want to? Aren’t you scared? Will you be okay alone? The answers aren’t as simple as I thought.

I know this – just like Mike Powell, if I’d gone to Alaska at 20 or so years of age, I would never have looked back at the lower 48. I fell instantly in love with the wildness, the people, the air, the light, the water, the pure colors, the smell of the air.

I have never been an outdoors person. Ever. I hate the ticks, the snakes, the heat and humidity of the outdoors south. Alaska has none of those. Bears, yes – but they’re not as numerous. I love being outside on the island. I enjoy hiking there. And I learned that even as out of shape as I am, I could make it down the trail even if I had to slide on my butt!

I love being out in the boat, watching the whales all around. The streams, the rocky beach, the harbor, the lakes – I love all the waters of our world on Prince of Wales Island. I won’t take the boat out alone. I don’t have the skills yet to do that. I may never have. Mike spent a lifetime learning his boating skills. He taught me some, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to what I need.

Even though we spent much of our lives apart, Mike and I had the same dream for our retirement years – to run a B&B, or in this case, a hunting and fishing camp. Mike put so much love and work into renovating the guest cabins and into rebuilding our cabin – and there is still such a long way to go on all of them. We will be trying our hand at renting cabins this summer – in fact, we have all of them full for one night, for the first time ever! Mike would be so happy.

Mike told me many stories of his flying days. I loved the photos of him and his Piper Cub. He always said he wished he could have taught me to fly. I’d have learned, too! From fishing to hanging out at the shop to building a fire – whatever Mike was doing, I wanted to do it, too.

He wasn’t used to that, and it caught him by surprise. He found he kind of liked having a female shadow, and we rarely left each other’s sides. I asked a million questions. Being around Mike was like being around a walking encyclopedia. I was continuously learning something cool from him, and I loved that.

We worked well together. I was his right hand helper. And in return, he sat for hours and watched me make jewelry. He read everything I wrote for my clients and critiqued it for me. We talked about books I was reading – or I read aloud to him. We were partners – before we were anything else.

And that partnership is why I’m going to Alaska. I’m going for me and I’m going for Mike. I have to remember what I can of what Mike taught me, and I’m going to work hard to figure out everything else I need to learn. I’m going to spend the time working with my clients, working on the property, relaxing and enjoying the island friends I love so much.

It’s going to be so much different to be there without Mike. I’m praying he will be with me on the island, just as he is here on our mountain.

And after Mike – family, friends and Google are all only a step away…at 62.

Mike Powell could make me laugh like nobody else. Slapstick comedy, practical jokes, side eyes, funny faces, sarcastic comments, sly remarks, caustic puns…living with Mike when he was in a prankish mood was a never-ending giggle.

I shoot my photos in “live” mode on my iPhone. When I press the photo for action, I sometimes hear a Mike comment, but mostly I just hear my laughter. In almost every photo, there is a silvery trill of pure joy.

Mike just flat made me happy.

He used to ask me why I was so serious. As he got to know me better, he realized I was really funny – but in a very different way. My humor was sarcastic remarks, made-up words, ways to turn a phrase, under-my-breath comments – and we played off each other.

Mike loved my words. It was one of the first compliments he ever gave me – interrupting me in mid-sentence, he blurted out, “Your vocabulary. I love your vocabulary!” It was one of the oddest – and the nicest – compliments I’d ever received. I wrote essays and stories for Mike when we were apart, funny tales of my life and travels, notes to keep him entertained and make him laugh.

Mike’s humor and the way he used words were two of the first things I loved about him. That dry wit just won me over. His signature sayings became a part of my vocabulary, and vice versa.

Over time, I got better at slapstick. I learned to watch out for the cup of cold water flying over the top of the shower stall. Paybacks are a given with me. I’d bide my time, wait several days, then slip into the bathroom when his back was turned, washing his hair. Sometimes he sensed me and ducked, but I usually got a full Yeti of ice water over the top and made my escape – fast!

Mike made me laugh until I literally peed my pants for the first time as an adult. We were down at the chicken pen, and I don’t remember what he said, but I couldn’t stop laughing! We’re nowhere near a bathroom, and I started laughing and cussing him at the same time. He hollered, “Hurry, hurry!” as I dashed up the hill to the house. Of course, that only made it worse, and I threatened him with big-time payback after I changed my clothes! It became our thing – every time I started laughing uncontrollably, I’d hear his chant, “Hurry, hurry!” We would keep the joke going until we were laughing so hard I almost couldn’t draw breath.

Some days we were back in second grade. Slugs, daddy long-legs – he’d threaten to put ’em on me, and I’d just squeal. I’d turn, and he’d have a mouthful of chewed-up food on his outstretched tongue. He’d switch his hat around as we were driving – front, back, side. He’d make funny faces at me. And I’d just giggle helplessly, like we were seven years old again.

Every now and then, I’d do something to get the belly laugh out of Mike. The gut laugh that went all the way to his core. It was just pure delight in a sound. Most times, it was that low, warm chuckle. Thrilled me right down to my toes every time I heard it.

He loved to tease me. He’d tell stories on me about silly things I did and mimic me. Those blue eyes would sparkle and he’d imitate me perfectly, making me laugh every single time.

Mike was still cracking jokes up to the very end of his life. He felt horrible, but he was still funny. I found an email he wrote to a friend about his cancer treatments. He signed it – “Your next American ninja. I applied, waiting to hear back.” That humor, and the positive way he faced each morning, made a huge difference in his fight against cancer. Yes, he occasionally got despondent and depressed, but he was willing to be teased out of it and eventually gave in to laughter.

We laughed every single day. Even when we were having food wars and fussing over his care plan, we still laughed. Even when we were furious with each other, we still found laughter at the end of it. Might have taken us a minute to find it, but we always did.

I’m not Mike. I cannot make myself laugh like that. Laughter like that takes two. And I think that’s one of the largest parts of my missing Mike – the knowing, loving, sarcastic, hysterical, prankish laughter we shared. It was love, friendship, partnership, marriage, shared experiences – that laughter was life. It gave me my sparkle. It filled the silence and fueled our happiness. It overwhelms my memories now.

I found myself laughing while driving down the road the other day. I have no idea now just why, and I didn’t know at the time. It felt so odd – and so good – to laugh again. Laughter is love. Laughter is Mike.

I will carry Mike Powell with me forever in my laughter…at 62.

The thing I hate the most since Mike died is the silence. Music, radio, tv, phone conversations don’t fill it. There is just no substitution for the sheer presence of another human being.

We might say nothing at all for an hour. We might talk continuously. We might read Facebook to each other. Tell a story. Make a grocery list. Play with a pet. It’s nothing big or earth-shaking. It’s the everyday communication between two people who love each other to the point that we are simply easy in our skins. It’s comfortable. Funny. Sexy. Sometimes angry. Frustrated. Sarcastic. Playful. Teasing. It’s the interaction between us – part of what made us who we were together.

Now that Mike no longer sits opposite me in his chair, it doesn’t matter how much noise fills the house – it is silent.

Silence has nothing to do with absence of speech. This silence is the absence of feeling, the absence of emotion. This silence is sitting, aware of the television, but not really aware at all. It’s dozing. It’s losing track of time, of agenda, of the world outside this room.

It’s sitting for hours, looking at pictures of Mike, of our life. It’s reading his notes, messages, letters to me. This silence is full of tears – angry, loud tears and screams that scare the cat, and that make Gus run to my side to try and fix me. It’s late nights spent wandering the house, begging dawn to come so that life can resume again.

Nothing fixes this silence. And after almost two months of it, I cannot take it any more.

Yesterday was a frustrating day. Too many errands in town, too many idiot paperwork policies to dance around, too many stores to wander through to tick off the to-do lists, too many things done twice or more. I wanted to come home to Mike, to commiserate and bitch, and hear him make me laugh. Instead, I came home to silence – and I went down the rabbit hole, doing all of the nonproductive grief things above.

Finally, I went up to my office. I spent three hours firing up my new work computer, figuring out syncing errors, royally screwing up a few things, and writing down a list of questions for the computer guy. I did some paperwork, and totally lost track of time in a good way.

No music played, no TV was on. The room was totally silent. But it wasn’t. I was clicking along, involved in life, instead of trying to fit myself into a photograph on a screen.

Missing Mike won’t stop. I will miss him every day I draw breath. Once I hit Alaska, it will come at me from every angle. That’s where we fell in love – where we made all of our first in-person memories together as a couple. But I will be busy there. My clients start back in force this summer. There is a ton of work to do at the cabin – and a ton of fun to be had as well. In the meantime, my to do lists are multiplying like those proverbial rabbits as the calendar days tick down to departure.

And maybe by summer’s end, I will be able to once again find peace in silence…at 62.