The way you were always reading mysteries, and always the end first.

The way you dialogued with the cats, so cutely voicing their imagined responses in that same high-pitched voice as babies adam and jody’s imagined responses years ago.

The second most beautiful sound in the world; you’d laugh til you cried when your husband stubbed his toe, fell down, or walked into something.

The way you could start and sustain a conversation with ANYONE.  On the plane, in the grocery store line, at the beach, in an elevator, in the cancer center waiting room.  It would begin with a kind remark about someone’s clothes or a question about someone’s eyeglasses, and go anywhere from there, often eventually including everyone in the room or area.

The caring you showed with elderly and handicapped people and elderly and handicapped animals.

The phms library kids and chs seniors you adored and adored you.  The library kids you said loved to help find what they were looking for, when they didn’t know what they were looking for.  And especially kids who were bullied, depressed, upset, or had no friends or social skills.

In school, the way the faculty would look to you to voice what everyone was thinking but was scared to say.   When you spoke at meetings, it was with so much passion, everyone would listen.

That you had no ego, and everyone knew it, whether elections, awards, compliments, then crediting someone else.

When you were frustrated, and instead of cussing, you’d say, “cuccahyodees.”

The way you played big sister or family referee.

Your presents.  my shares of the Celtics, the Rick Dees song direct from Rick Dees, the ‘scrotum’ outtake direct from Family Feud’s Richard Dawson, the bricks from Boston Garden and the Berlin Wall, the Ted Williams card, but mostly your “I love you, Alan.”

Your coupon basket and return receipts.

Your little obsessions;Murder She Wrote,Northern Exposure,Monk,NCIS,The Closer,QVC, Bill Clinton,JFK Jr.,Jeanne Bice,Joan Rivers,Jackie O,Lady Di, Agatha Christie,Sue Grafton,Peter Gethers,Joanne Fluke,Janet Evanovich

How you’d sneak your “big boy” money, hiding his overdrafts, tickets, and credit card bills from me.  How you handled your “baby” those early years when he was Mr. Student.  And how you’d always ask the kids the serious questions I couldn’t.

Your ability to dance.  Your inability to sing.    The single sweetest sound in the world was you singing, whether the upbeat Billy Joel or moody Roberta Flack you loved. Always full voice, without a care, oblivious to any listener, hitting not one note, flat as the belief of the world pre-Columbus.

Eating lobster with you.  And making me take the eyes off  first, so he couldn’t see you eating him.

How close you were with so many people.

Your glunking.  As exquisite as you were, even when we met, you walked with the delicacy of a jackhammer.

Seeing Nosy sleeping with you.

You in your little volunteer Las Robles outfit.  I hated that place because of what they did to you, but you would only hear of helping.

Jody and Adam calling Mom.

Your funny knees and the most beautiful face in the world

That you stayed with your moron husband whose heart is broken, because he never told you these things. miss

God must have spent a little more time on you.  You’re certainly a most extraordinary and exquisite one-of-a-kind.

The big things; your selflessness, resolve, passion, compassion, motherability, and your so-precious innocence.  And the little things….

Sometimes, as with the cancer, you were so feisty, courageous, and uncomplaining.  Every one of your doctors said they’d rarely seen anyone go through what you went through.  But sometimes, you were My Little Phyllis.  If the cats cornered a bug, didn’t matter if it were 3 a.m., you’d awaken me to kill it right away.  You loved fresh lobster, but would not even enter the room if I didn’t remove the eyes and antennae, because you didn’t want him watching you eating him.  You would not fold or save an empty paper bag, in case there was “something” in there.  You loved Windex and kept bottles of it in every room in the house, to kill bugs, remove stains, and leave a fresh smell, none of which Windex really does.  And my favorite; in the morning, you’d tell me I had been mean to you in your dream last night, and you’d be mad at me all day.

The students found 2 newborn kittens being attacked by birds, outside her library.   You brought them home.  One is Nosy, our tiny cat who meows, or actually barks incessantly, and came into bed with you every morning.  You’d say, “My Nosy knows.,” and that was your district password.  The other you called Black Beauty, but I called Scaredycat or Cuckookitty.  People could stay with us for days and never see this cat.   She lived under the bed, only coming out in the middle of the night to eat, poop, or to be petted by you.

You’d answer the phone, “What’s the matter?” or “Are you OK?” or “Is something wrong?”; almost never “Hello”.

Utilizing one of your superpowers; you loved to talk your way into returning anything, at any time, to any store, for yourself or your friends.

You knew it was no fun being behind you and your bazillion coupons, in line at the market, so you’d make friends, talking up the people behind you, before and while the clerk was checking your stuff.

If you were deciding to buy something on QVC, you’d tell them you were going to buy it, but will send a check.  That way, you’d get 2 more weeks to decide if you really wanted it.

Still, you returned so many QVC things at the agoura post office, that clerks Wes and Winnie told me they knew the addresses and postage by heart.   They said they always loved that you told them what you were returning and why, though it was none of their business.

Because of  library extinctions & cuts, you refused to read articles or book excerpts on the computer, only in printed or spoken books, mags, & newspapers.

Idiosyncrasies I’ve previously written;  the all-in passion of the cacophony when you’d sing, the perpetual lugging of that huge canvas bag of books and notes, the improvised dialoguing with the kitties, reading the end of mysteries first, your cussing/swear word ‘cuccahyodeez’, your easy conversing with strangers, the intensity of your love for outcast kids and animals.

Above all, you’re Mom.  You’d get so angry when Jody got a ticket or Adam missed an assignment.  Then, if I agreed with or echoed what you said, you’d 180 flip at me for not defending the kids.

No-one like you, ever, mybeauty.  We miss you like crazy.phyl’s idiosyncrasies2

Phyl loved animals.  For me, they’re food.  Phyllis would say, “I’m a pet person”.  We always had kittens to cats.  There are 100s of cat items in the house.  Soapdishes, rugs, toys, furniture, lamps, outfits, utensils. clocks, jewelry, even our house number and mailbox.  She had all the “All Creatures Great and Small” books, all the Frederick The Literate lithos, read all of and corresponded with Peter Gethers, brought Wheely Willy to her library, cried when she read the book “Marley and Me”, cried when she watched the movie “Marley and Me”.  

And we always had at least 2 or 3 of the real things, from Jelly Beany the Meanie, the dumbest fucking lump ever, to Seaweed, the Genius of Cats, who would jump up, grab the doorknob in her left paw, twist the doorknob with her right paw, and open the door.  From Stinky the Winkard, the farting cat, to the present three3: two sisters left in a box, being attacked by birds outside her library; big, fat Cuckookitty ( my designation, Phyl named her Black Beauty)who lives nearly every moment under the bed, with her sister little Nosy, the cutest kitty in the world, who Phyl called “Nosy Knows” because Nosy has to watch everything, and bad boy Webby, who Jody got on “Star Search”, and Phyl called “The Devil” because of his bullying, hissing, snarling, and scratching when he doesn’t get his way, but on whom Phyl spent $2,000  one night at 4 a.m. when he was in distress. 

Phyl loved those damn things, but I’m not a pet person.  If I’d said, “It’s them or me,” I’d be homeless.  I do take care of them, though it’s like sitting through a bazillion performances of Broadway’s “Cats”, just one show of which shortens one’s life by years(sorry, Jen).  All three have been spoiled for 17 years.  I’m their slave.  And the enemy.  They were perfect with Phyl.  Not now.  If they take exception, they poop.  If I lock em up, they poop.  If I re-use a dish or change food, yup.  Or they overturn litter.  Or little Nosy does that ninety-decibal honk all day.  Or they awaken me twelve times a night.  For years, I tried different and cheaper food, but n-o-o-o.  They eat Costco chicken and Fancy Feast.  Phyllis thought it was cute when I tried inexpensive 9 Lives or Meow Mix, and the cats would get contrary.  She’d applaud them, “You showed him.”  She would bend over the new food and make this gutteral sound and backwards pawing motion that cats do to cover their poops with litter.  Then, when I tried a cheaper food, all three cats learned her gesture, and she’d go bonkers laughing.  She called it ‘the old scratcheroo’ as in “Daddy got the old scratcheroo again. Good for you kitties.  Bad Daddy.”  She thought it was hilarious.  It wasn’t.  (Though I miss her deep laugh more than anything in this world.) It’s my warning sign.  As  I was writing this, (I didn’t know they can read, but I swear this is true) Webby came in the family room next to me, gave me the old scratcheroo and barfed three times, in three different places, on the immaculate new tile David had put in just two weeks ago. So I do what Phyl never did.  I still let them out at night for their pleasure and mine in the hopes that the coyotes will snack. 

You were the most beautiful girl, actually the most beautiful sight, I’ve ever seen. Just stunning beauty. But you hated your legs. You had funny, lumpy knees. And you limped slightly because a truck hit you when you were seven. I said you looked like an elegant Miss Universe clomping down the runway like an at-at in Star Wars. I called you Glunkies. I guess I could’ve been nicer. From dating through marriage, for 41 years, it always went like this….
“Did you see the legs on that girl? I hate my legs.”
“You are THE most beautiful girl in the world. It doesn’t matter.”
“Other women have long, beautiful legs.”
“I love your legs, Glunkies. Especially the phyllisfunnyknees.”
“I hate my knees.”
“I love your knees.”
“I hate my legs.”

Nosy is our very small, cutest cat. Nosy slept with you. Every morning, just as you did, I pick up one of Nosy’s little catnip mouse toys off the hallway floor and put it back in the metal bowl where you kept a pile of 20 or so different sizes of these fucking catnip mice. Every morning, there’s only one on the hallway floor.
It could be the one-inch size or the three inch size or another, but there’s always only one. It was some kind of game Nosy played with you. For you, it was one of all the fun things you did every day with the kitties you love. For me, it’s work.

I’m the least assertive person you know. You used to say, “Why do you hate attention?” You were vocal. You ALWAYS spoke up. Even when others feared to. Your friends and colleagues loved that what you thought was what you said. You were not above and beyond going above and beyond. So unlike me. If you thought you were wronged, you would “give them a piece of my mind”. Or what I called “going into your act”. On cue, you would feign anger, or tears, or joy, or surprise, or illness, or even faint. You were relentless, and inevitably, got your way. Like a little girl, after you pulled it off, you’d look for approval. And I was always proud of your talent.

You had the ability to start and sustain a conversation with anyone. You would convert complete strangers into friends. I sit in a room full of friends and say nothing, converting friends into complete strangers. With you by my side, I never had to think, “Are they talking to me?” or “Do I have to say something?” Even now, in the bereavement group, when it’s my turn, I find myself turning my head, waiting for you to speak.
You had that phyllispassion when you spoke. it was your charisma, mybeauty. I envied and admired it. You listened to everyone, and everyone listened to you.ourdifferences1o

Phyllis loved Halloween. 

We’d get lots of kids.  She’d decorate outside.  She loved answering the door.  She’d yell “Trick or treat” before the kids did. Then ask them to explain their characters (excepting teenagers after 8, when she made me get the door).  We’d give out a ton of candy. 

She loved pumpkin-flavored ice cream, drinks, and especially Ralphs’ pumpkin-chocolate chip cookies.

She wore at least 10 different Quacker Factory Halloween sparkly tops and sweaters to work.  She had many, many pins, bracelets, earrings, necklaces with pumpkins, witches, and of course black cats(she had—we still have – 3 real black cats.  That has nothing to do with this story, but, in case you missed it; I hate them.)

Her library would be all duded up in Halloween. My drama classes and she did Halloween shows together.  It was the only time each year that Phyl and i taught together.  Each of the six periods, multiple classes would sign up, sit on the big library tables, listen to phyl tell her stories, and see my kids do their skits.   Phyl was a very dramatic, very animated storyteller.  Nearly always, she’d tell the life story of Edgar Allen Poe, then read his stories, most often “The Telltale Heart”. By end of the schoolday, she was exhausted.

Last week, Araceli Caro, now a high school senior, wrote this story on facebook, about Phyl. It’s better and more depictive than anything I could add here. (And Cheli, I can’t even express how much your insight, and ability to express it, means to me.  You are a treasure, and I’m as proud of you as you should be.)….. 

 Araceli Nicolette Caro I remember around this time of year the drama kids would start getting ready for the Halloween performances. We would all be hyped up on early Halloween sugar and nervous for the performances. All the classes would take turns going to the library to watch us as well as listen to Mrs.B tell her legendary stories and watch the Simpsons version of “The Raven”. When I first saw this I was so excited because my mom never let me watch the Simpsons. After that she would go into her stories. She would always tell the story of the lady who had a spiders growing under her skin which always made my skin crawl. After this she would tell us that years ago she thought she had a bug in her ear but Mr.B didn’t believe her. She ended up waking up in the middle of the night and putting her ear under the shower head cause she felt something in there. She went to the hospital and she actually did have a bug in her ear. She would laugh and smile at Mr.B through the whole story and we would all laugh even though for some of us this was the hundredth time we’ve heard the story. But the way she laughed and smiled made it feel like a whole new story. Then she would go into the tale tell heart by Edgar Allen Poe. She did this with an old radio as sound affects and she would bring the story to life. Every year I still make sure I read that story around this time. No matter where I am I can still hear Mrs. B’s voice narrating the entire story. For me she really made this season something special and not just for middle school, but many years to come. She still comes to my mind when I’m looking for a book to read because she always seemed to always know exactly what I was looking for before even I did. Thank you for sharing such an amazing wife and mom with all of us at Patrick Henry. I’m so glad I got to have her in my life. 

One of phyl’s inexplicable idiosyncrasies was the dichotomy of her anger.

Time and time again, I saw her used and slough it off, or get upset and a minute later dismiss it as if it’d never happened.  She always said, “I don’t…” and “You shouldn’t… hold a grudge.”  Phyllis would always help anybody at any time, no matter how put out she was.  Biggest example… Patrick Henry Middle School; teachers would come in the library, dump their classes, and leave, sometimes just on an errand or a break, often without asking.  Or put their classes in the library after a trip, so they didn’t have to teach first or last period. Or send ten kids down to her to make up ten different tests.  Administrators would ask her to cover classes in the library when they didn’t have a sub yet.   Or put her in charge of the gay student group, or the faculty dinner, or the state test strays, or entertaining some higher up . Or have student or faculty parties and leave everything for her to clean up.  None of this was her job, of course.  She gave everyone gifts twice a year, never took a lunch or nutrition, never took a cent for covering classes every single day, ran 4 book fairs and three faculty parties a year, all proceeds going to the school. In the 12 years since she resurrected that demolished library, she’d been nice to everybody: and everybody knew that.  I’d say, “After what he (or she) did to you, how can you be nice to that asshole?”  And inevitably, she’d tell me something sympathetic in their personal life.   She was that close to everyone.  (my note: Yet 6, that’s all, just 6 of the present staff and evil office called, wrote, or emailed in the 2 years after we left, and they knew she was sick, until we got an envelope  of cards from some teachers, when she was comatose in her last month-stay in Cedars Hospital.  Only six came to her west coast memorial.  No-one from phms has sent a penny toward her scholarship, and they even shot down the proposal to name the library after her.  Do I sound bitter? p.s., to be sure that’s not colleagues from chatsworth high, the lausd librarians, or folks who used to work at phms.  Those people have been just wonderful.)  Yet she always made excuses for phms.  And everyone else in the world.  Always.  Even toward the end.  She’s a purely good person.

So why a dichotomy?  Because there were some things that did tick her off. And one didn’t want to be around at those times.  It was time for elvis to leave the building, when I heard, “I’M GOING TO GIVE THEM A PIECE OF MY MIND!!!!”  Uh-oh.

1–If this girl ever got a late fee; bazoom!  Somebody was gonna get it.   Even if it was late.  She didn’t believe in late fees.  (One could get blisters just overhearing the phone call.)  And relentless.  Like Phyl in over 20 elections…never lost.  Undefeated.

2—The obvious.  If somebody said something untoward about the kids.

3—If you even mentioned her Diet Coke

4—or the government college loans.

5—As I wrote once before: television.

A) the cheaters on the Maury Show.  She’d walk past, into the kitchen, and say, “I can’t believe you watch this crap.”  Then, immediately, “What’d that j-e-r-k say? Turn it up.” (She had a real East Boston way of saying the word,’j-e-r-k’.  More about that next week.)

(B) my-heart-bleeds-for-you commercials wherein humans put pets at risk or someone abandons a pet.  “How can anybody be so cruel?  I’d find the guy who did that and cut his balls off.”  And yes, every time, that’s exactly what she’d say.

(C) Ann Coulter.  A Republican talking head, mentioned previously, but certainly that “fool”,”witch”,”idiot”, “disgusting pig”, has earned a special place in the pantheon of Phyllis-going-fucking-nuts-whenever-she-saw-“that slut”.  Phyl’d pace, back and forth, in front of the set, cussing, pointing at, and middle-fingering “that sick blonde bitch”.  And if Ms. Coulter  criticized Clinton, Phyl was ready to nuke her.

6—And those moments reserved for just me.

A)  If i even hinted a negative about anyone on her side of the family

B)  Phyl felt dreams reflected real life.  She wouldn’t speak to me as she awakened, when “You were mean to me in my dream.”

C)  One of our usual arguments was about nagging.  I would tell her, “I don’t need to be told twelve times.  Just tell me one time.”  So she’d tell me one time, and inevitably I’d forget to do it.  I’m a j-e-r-k.  We were in the mall and went into Spencer’s, what my mom calls a tzutzke store.  I shouldn’t have, but I bought a little button that, when pressed, says, “Yes, Dear.”   For a week, I hid it and pressed it every time Phyl asked me to do something.   Each time aggravated her a bit more.   And after about the fifth time, she flipped to find the button like Kong tearing up New York looking for Fay Wray.  I never used it again.  I’m a j-e-r-k.

It’s a year since.  This site is about Phyllis.  Positive and reflective of our greatest blessing.  Oftimes we try for warm and nostalgic.   This particular post is not like that.  I sincerely suggest no-one read it.  It’s just for me.  And the future.  Like Wednesday’s visit, it has a different purpose.  As with Adam and Jen, Jody and Tracy, if there’s family to follow, I want to assure they know what losing Phyllis really means. No la-di-dah stories, pix, idiosyncrasies.  If only one post, I want them to know that, by a bazillion miles, losing myphyllis is the most devastating thing ever.

A Year Without
I don’t have a home any more.  You were my home.  My world simply makes no sense.  When something, anything happens, I try to turn to mycuckoo and realize I’m no longer in that world where I belong to you.  I’m in another world, this world, where I don’t belong at all.  I belong where you are, mybeauty.   More than anything, I need you to know you are my life.  I so wished I had told you.  Now is not my real life.  My real life is when you were here.  One can’t fly with one wing.
The kids are here, so so am I. Above all, you are Mom.  This is something you still are.  Your voice will always be there.  More than any father could wish.  Mom incarnate.  You loved your boys far more than I could even have wished.  Both boys talk about you all the time.  They’re so like you; as extraordinary as you.  They remember all good things beyond my reach right now.  A year and three days ago, you said, “Thank you for giving me two wonderful sons.”  And me being numb with denial, foolishly said nothing.  What I should have said, of course, was  “Thank you.”  As you used to say, You’re the one….”  You’re the one who made them special.  Selfless was you.  You’re the one we’re so very proud of.  You’re the one who did everything.
You were everything.  My everything.  I was not very good at letting you know.  It was what was so often unsaid in our marriage, and in the end, is what tears up my soul and leaves only pieces.  I’m a ball of regret.  People constantly advise don’t dwell in the past.  But when one feels no present or future, that’s where one lives.   Life is to share.  When the person upon whom one is imprinted is gone, life as one knows it is gone.
You were it for me.  I never loved any girl but you, though I certainly was terrible at it.        We argued over everything, but there were never affairs or separations or even threats of that crap.  As rocky as our marriage was, we knew we were each other’s forever.
We are so different, so quarrelsome,. and often unhappy and distant, yet addicted to each other’s presence. I know I was never more or less than what I saw in your eyes.
I was not your Prince Charming.  By a longshot.  I did not give you the life you wished.
The person in the universe who regrets the most in his llfe is, at worst, tied for 1st with me.
You’re the most selfless, caring person I’ve ever been blessed to know.  You deserved better than me. I didn’t buy you the house you deserved, the trips you deserved, the times you deserved.  You always worked, school and home.  I didn’t pay you the attention you deserved.  I’m not the husband you deserved—and it’s heartbreaking.  I love you far more than I deserve to say, and certainly more than there are words to depict.  Even if I were not the best person for you, you were certainly the best person for me.
I never mentioned, talked about, or even referred to death.  Not even once.  I always told you I’d never let anything happen to you.  And I must have been in serious denial, because I truly, truly believed it.  I never even reminisced, because I thought that would somehow give you the impression that our memories until then, were all we’d have.  It’s an unbearable regret that I callously took that from myphyllis.  Once you did refer to passing.  The last day you were conscious, you said some things I won’t share.  But when you thanked me for “our two wonderful sons,” you added, “even if one gets tickets”, because that was you.  More than anything I could write, that was you, myphyllis.  And you told me, “I worry about you if I’m gone.”  You knew.
But I had a special relationship with God.  I’d spoken directly to Him every night since I was a toddler.    I’d followed my own given commandments. I’d already had sufficient tragedy.  I knew of bigger recidivisms, remissions, miracles.  We’d been through your NDE anaphyllaxes twice. The doctors never told us until the last two months.  Didn’t matter.  I knew you weren’t going to die.  Now it seems the most irrational case of denial ever.
It just never struck that I’d lose you. I never conceived that we could be apart.  Even near the end, I just would not believe it.  It wasn’t going to happen. What an idiot.  I think, therefore I’m numb.

I shop, feed the kitties, do the laundry, clean the house, do the bills, clean the litter, cook the meals, do the dishes, talk to the neighbors, even a few times answer the phone, take care of the kids’ problems; all the things that took so much of your after-work time, effort, and energy, which I knew but never really knew.  Of course, I don’t do any as well as you; but no-one could.
I know it’s too late.  It aches and aches of sorrow.  But, in the year, I’ve tried to do ten things you asked of us, but just didn’t do.  I’ve kept your cats happy and healthy (though I hate them), lost 75 pounds(on the no-reason-to-live diet), found the wedding album,  found the Mama Dora video, cleaned out the garage and replaced all the cardboard, filed all the piles of paper, and arranged for the tiling(Bev and Dave were about to do it when Beverly had her own flood, but it will be done), and paid off The Bastards, the $120,000 college loan and much of the astounding medical bills (thanks to Bob’s expertise overcoming the evil payees and our own financial ineptitude) and shaved off the beard (in two weeks no-one but the kids has noticed), as you always wished.  Too late, Alan.
I still wear dark glasses because I cry at any trigger; some beget uncontrollable sobbing; and, when I’m alone, unbearable wailing.   Everything’s a trigger, awakening another memory of you.
I see a couple walking;  I hate them.
I was jogging. I had the earpiece in and ‘Lady in Red’ came on.  Bob drove by and pulled up aside.  He asked me something, but I was crying, and he thought I’d gone over the edge.  The truth was, I’d gone over the edge..
I went to Costco.  I bought my usual frozen yogurt cup.  The clerk said, “One spoon or two?”  I started bawling.
No-one could miss anyone any more than I miss you
There are 450 songs on our iphone.  Every morning while I run, many make me cry.  Thee are some lines when I can’t breathe…..
“There’s a place for us” Westside Story
“Didn’t tell her I’m so happy she’s mine” Elvis Presley
“Everything means nothing, if I ain’t got you” Alycia Keys
“Ain’t no mountain high enough, keep me from you” Marvin Gay
“He loved one woman for all his life” Chevy commercial
“Cause we shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears
There’s so much I need to say to you, so many reasons why
You’re the only one who really knew me at all” “I will protect you, from all around you
“Cause you’ll be in my heart, now and forever more” Phil Collins
“The long and winding road, has left a pool of tears, crying for the day.
Don’t leave me standing here, let me know the way” Beatles
“Someday we’ll be together” Supremes
“If you should ever leave me,
God only knows what I’d be without you” Beach Boys
“Miss you like crazy, every hour, every day
No matter what I say or do, there’s just no getting over you” Natalie Cole

“There’s a new world somewhere they call The Promised Land,
And I’ll be there someday, if you will hold my hand
I could search the whole world over until my life is through,
But I know I’ll never find another you” Seekers
“Darling, I never showed you, Assumed you’d always be there
Never had I imagined, Living without your smile
And I know you’re shining down on me from Heaven
And I know eventually we’ll be together” Mariah Carey
“Can’t believe you ain’t here, I’d do anything to bring you back
I saw your son today, He looks just like you
Can’t wait to see, If you open The Gates for me” Puff Daddy
and
“It’s just you and me, It’s where I want to be
And when you turned to me and smiled, it took my breath away” Chris DeBurgh

I’m so proud and grateful I was married to you.
Nevertheless, when I awaken, I remember the now.  Though I know I should, I don’t think of the good times.   I miss you like crazy.  No dreams, sharing, laughter, love; no meaning.  You are, and will always be, the love of my life.  Forever, inconceivably, the reality, the finality of your terrible journey is overwhelming.  Cuccahyodeez, I so wish I’d realized.  Right now, no-one on earth knows, better than me, how fleeting life is, because I was the poster boy for not knowing.  You’re the most beautiful girl, both inside and out, in the world, and I love you to the sky, mycuckoo.  But to breathe is to miss you.  It isn’t just that I miss you; it’s you need to know how much I miss you. And how special you are.
At the family unveiling, I upset my mom by throwing my yarmulke in anger.  And I’m still way, way beyond white-hot-livid.  Few people should (and the doctors said, could) have endured what besieged you.  You fought like hell, but fortune was never on your side.  He took my life too, after all.  It can’t be real, but it is.  We were supposed to grow old together.
Most of the angry reality that occluded my life has morphed into pain and sadness.  Every single morning I cannot fucking believe this.  Every night I ask your forgiveness and for me-instead-of-you.  From rage to exist.   With one ire I’ll never forgive.  What happened, especially in the end, was so far from what you deserved that God/ destiny/chance really owe us.  And I will forever be furious at taking you from me and our kids, until and if it’s somehow made good.  So enduring is my only hope and raison-d’etre, illogical and loony as it once seemed, to see you,  again.  Every night I ask that.  Every night I offer to trade my life for one minute to say what was unsaid.  Aside from seeing you again, what I want most in this life, what I pray, is that you do know how you’re loved, missed, and extraordinary.  So I ask to be able to tell you, or at least you know.
Just thinking that I may never talk to you, or touch you, or just watch you sleep is eternal hell.

Today is a year since.  Jody, Adam, and I flew in and visited the cemetery in Peabody.  We’re back in L.A.  We stayed in Boston less than a day, and had but two purposes.  We went to phyllis’ father and phyl’s stone.  We saw many rocks and shells recently put there.  We know we are fortunate to have loving family and friends in Boston. We had an unveiling in June.  If we’d told or visited anyone, we may have hurt feelings of others.  This one was for us. 

Friday was your yahrzeit.  Jody and I went to Etz Chaim to say Kaddish.  It was tough for him as he sat beside this guy who cried for two hours.  No post last week or yesterday, as a lot has happened; nothing good. Relatively, of course, it’s all little stuff.  I’ll wallow only once.  Soon.  Otherwise, a few more of our moments….

You were a skilled driver, but even more skilled at the formidable, muy dificil back-seat driving from the front seat.  For over 40 years, whether we were dating or headed to Cedars-Sinai, you sat beside me in the passenger seat, book in lap, reading intently.  Yet, somehow, every single time I drove within 50 feet of  another car, curb, pedestrian, biker, pothole, or fucking squirrel, you’d scream, “Alan!!!”, scaring the living beejesus out of me.

And I’d yell, “You drive!”

And you’d yell, “I’m not driving!”

You loved chocolate Easter bunnies, macncheese, drippy omelets, mint chip anything, lobster, scalloped potatoes, pumpkin cookies, egg roll, salmon, eggnog, tamales, clams, tiramisu, pears, onion rings, and blintzes.  You weren’t fond of meat, coffee, chocolate if it wasn’t Lindt, Sees, or Nestles, ice cream if it wasn’t banana or mint, pastry if it wasn’t pumpkin or cheese. 

Everyone knows you’ve always loved cats.   We have literally hundreds of images and paraphernalia, from original Bukowsky and Lladro to ceramic soap dishes, knitted tissue boxes, and your own needlepoint.   We’ve had quite a few real ones too.  Thumper, Seaweed, Jelly Bean, Squeaky, Wolfman, Stinky, Webby, Nosy, Cuckookitty.  Our license plate and emails are ‘sixmeows’. You always spoiled them way beyond rotten. Presently we still have three.  I hate them.

Since you were 14 or 15, you had worked. You couldn’t take part in after-school activities in high school or the dorms or sorority house in college, because you had to work.  From high school until about our second year of marriage, you kept ledgers wherein you wrote down every cent you spent, and I mean by the penny.  You always clipped coupons and kept your coupon box and records, saving us up to $2700 a year.  When we’d shop together in Agoura supermarkets, I’d leave when you’d get to the checkout, because the coupons would hold up the line.  But you were brilliant about it.  It was your element.  You’d use that incredible abilty I’d seen a thousand times, to make strangers feel you were friends.  When you first got in line, you’d use your super-shmoozing powers to ingratiate yourself with the people behind you, so minutes later they wouldn’t be mad while they were waiting for you.  And you were even more social with the checkers, whom you’d shmooz about their familtes and give them coupons.  So often, you’d get in the longest line, because that checker was your friend. 

Another of your superpowers.  You’re something else, you always were, myphyllis.