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The Ritual
Every Sunday morning is the same. I wake up with a start to find myself buried in my wife’s empty pillow. I’m almost able to smell her. And my hands ache2) to touch her body. That’s when I remember she’s gone. And so, wearily3), I rub the sleep from my eyes with closed fists, run my hands through my tousled hair and force my feet over the bed’s edge. As I slowly stand up, I hear the television downstairs blaring“Bullwinkle and Rocky”-a sure sign that Angel is awake. This always puts a smile on my face. I head down the stairs and give her a big hug and kiss. It is a daily ritual between us. When I’m too tired to remember to do it though, she sweetly purses her lips at me and waits expectantly. “Whatcha doin’4)？”I’ll always ask. “It’s morning, ”she says and purses her lips again. “I know. But what are you doing？”
Of course I know the answer. Angel always sighs loudly and rolls her eyes in that adorable, three-year-old way of hers. “I’m waiting for my kiss, Daddy. ”And dutifully, though a little chagrined5), I lean down to kiss her small lips. This elicits a smile brighter than the morning sun.
Breakfast with Angel is my favorite part of the day. My wife, a true night owl6), would never wake before noon on Sundays, so we used to fend for ourselves. I’ve become quite the cook lately, and now our table is usually laden with French Toast, bacon, cinnamon muffins, freshly-made orange juice and coffee. Angel and I converse about her dollies and all the things she has planned for the day, most of which includes playing“house”and having snacks. I pull out the paper and show her all the pictures, explaining the stories behind them. “Just like on TV.”she cries, and I laugh while shaking my head.
After eating, she and I go through the daily ritual of getting dressed, which she must do by herself. I watch her carefully, on hand in case the buttons decide to be a bit difficult. Sundays call for a dress, something she loathes7) because it limits her outside play activities, but she never complains. She knows why she’s getting dressed up. I throw on clothes of my own. We climb into the car and get seat-belted in. “Last one belted in is a rotten egg.” she cries out and we both race to see who can get buckled in first. It’s become a game for us, a way to never forget. That’s when we drive to the cemetery.
Walking among the tombstones and flowers, Angel grows quiet. This is Daddy’s sad place, and she instinctively knows not to chatter. I appreciate this gesture, for it lets me get a little bit lost in my sorrow. This is where my wife sleeps now.
Carrie Rochelle Davis
Beloved wife of Michael and mother of Angel
Born May 2, 1966
Died July 1, 1995
. . . is what the hard, gray stone reads, the words so stark I can see them behind my closed eyelids at night.
All around us, I can smell Spring. The trees are green and leafy. I can hear the sounds of children playing in their yards and the lawn mowers8) kicking into gear. And the air has a warm breeze to it-the kind that warms the hairs on your arms as it blows by.
But none of that is Carrie. Carrie who wore the musky smell of vanilla behind her ears. Carrie who had the icy blue eyes of a winter sky. Carrie who would sing off -key in the car with the radio turned loud. This place of quiet, this place of the dead, was not Carrie. My Carrie would have laughed at me for being so foolish. She would have wanted me to go on with my life, and set about finding another woman to give my love to. Still, each Sunday we came.
Angel falls to her knees and stares at the orange and yellow tulips I place on the ground. “Does Mommy like flowers？”she asks. “Yes, sweetie. She liked them in the brightest of colors. They made her happy, ”I say as the tears well up in my eyes. I fight hard to keep them in, and just when I think I succeed. . .
“When’s Mommy coming home？”Anguished, I can’t answer her. Seeing this, she wraps her small arms around my legs and says, “It’s okay. Let’s let Mommy go nigh-night.” I nod silently, and she stands back up.
“Bye Mommy.Don’ t let the bed bugs bite.”And she pats the stone’s top like she’s patting a dog’s head. I smile at the gesture. To her, Mommy will always be this place, and Daddy putting flowers next to her bed. She’ll never know the woman who brought her home from the hospital and cried the whole night through because“she’s gonna9) grow up someday and go to school and fall in love and get married and make me a grandmother.” Carrying that thought with me, a small smile appears at my mouth. “C’ mon, beautiful. Let’s go play house. ”“Can I be the Mommy??? Please?!?”“Sure you can. ”And we turn away to face the afternoon, together.
by Jade Walker
