2/20/25

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

In general, I’m not someone who likes surprises. I’m big on organizing. I’m big on planning. I’m big on sticking with schedules and knowing what’s about to come around the corner.

One of the things 2024 taught me is you cannot always plan on what’s coming around the corner.

But planning is still within my comfort zone. I’ve had to learn, with running a small business and having a new baby at the age of 40, to never expect plans to be 100%, and to be prepared to change direction in one hot moment.

But still. I like to know what’s coming.

I’ve had some odd things happen since Michael died. I can’t explain them; I don’t really want to explain them. I want to just wonder about them and marvel.

The first one happened soon after his death, when I was cleaning out his hoarder’s closet. With a couple shelves done and more to do, I fell exhausted into bed one night and cried out loud, “Oh, Michael, where are you?”

The next morning, when I got out of bed, my feet landed on either side of something small, rectangular, and white. After bending to pick it up, I found that it was a magnetic poetry piece. “In here,” it said.

Michael, of course, or at least his remains, are in an urn. And this type of humor is all Michael.

That magnetic poetry piece now sits in front of his urn. Whenever I wonder where he is, I just have to look at it and know. “In here.”

During Christmas week, I fell very ill, as I’ve written about. Bronchitis like never experienced before. A sinus infection that felt like my entire head was going to blow up. For two weeks, I didn’t teach, and the only people to come into the AllWriters’ classroom on the first floor over a three day period was my son Christopher, my faculty member Richard (and his students), and a handyman who was installing a chair rail for me. Early Tuesday morning, Christopher came to let the dog out, so I wouldn’t have to attempt to breathe down and back up through two flights of stairs. On Wednesday, Richard came to teach. On Thursday morning, the handyman came to finish the chair rail. Those were the only people who’d been in the classroom by the time I came down late Thursday afternoon, dragged by a dog who just couldn’t wait any longer.

On the classroom table, right in front of my teaching chair, was a miniature Philadelphia Eagles football. That’s weird, I thought. The Philadelphia Eagles were Michael’s favorite football team.

I called Christopher and asked if he found a football when he took the dog out. “What football?” he said.

I texted Richard and asked if he or one of his students brought in a miniature football. “What football?” he said.

I asked Dave, the handyman, and he said, “Oh, I saw it, but I didn’t bring it.”

So somewhere between 9:00 p.m. Wednesday night when Richard’s class ended, and 8:00 Thursday morning when Dave showed up, the football arrived. There was no explanation.

But…I had just decided to read a section from Michael’s unfinished novel at the AllWriters’ 20^th Birthday Event. And the football was in the AllWriters’ classroom, at the teacher’s chair.

I think I got his approval. Or maybe he was telling me to bet on the Philadelphia Eagles at the Superbowl. I didn’t even know they were playing. But the football now sits next to the urn.

Then came Rudolph. When we first built our condo 19 years ago,  I purchased a large stuffed Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with a battery-powered blinking nose for our first Christmas. He stood by one of our living room windows, looking out over the city parking lot. At the end of that first Christmas, I was preparing to pack Rudolph away with the rest of the Christmas stuff when Michael protested. “He looks cute there,” he said. “Leave him.”

So I did. For the next 19 years. His nose stopped blinking at the end of the first year, and we never bothered to change the batteries. The batteries in the battery holder inside his stomach are the same that he arrived with when I bought him.

So the Wednesday after the arrival of the football, I saw a red blinking light reflected in my living room window. I thought it might be a police car, and so I got up to look.

It was Rudolph. I took a video, to show my kids. It had been so long, I couldn’t even remember how to turn him off. He blinked and blinked, and then finally shut off on his own.

After Michael died, during my cleaning fit, I considered getting rid of Rudolph. Now, he’s not going anywhere.

And now, the latest thing.

Last week, I wrote about how hard it was to go through Valentine’s Day. The week before that, I wrote about things that I’ve been wearing to offer encouragement during moments that I’m having a hard time. A sweatshirt that says Keep Going… on the front. A ring that says, “Keep walking past the open windows,” another ring that says, “You’re enough,” and a third that says, “Your story isn’t over yet.”

So Valentine’s Day. And no, I haven’t found my jewelry box. But on Valentine’s Day, there was a package waiting for me at my front door. I puzzled over it as I carried it upstairs. I hadn’t ordered anything. There wasn’t any return address. The package was soft and squishy, so it wasn’t a book I’d pre-ordered, the most common culprit when I receive a surprise package.

I sliced the package open, and then pulled out a black and gray speckled sweater. I held it up in front of me, and across the chest, written in very subtle silver, is the word, “Beautiful.”

Whenever Michael arrived home, he had two ways of greeting me. One was, “Hey, Punkin.”

And the other… “Hi, beautiful.”

And it was Valentine’s Day.

The package was definitely addressed to me, by name. I have no idea where it came from.

But I very much like to believe that I do know. Just as I know why Rudolph blinked, and where the football came from, and I laugh whenever I read, “In here.”

(Now if he would only show me where the jewelry box is.)

The sweater fits perfectly.

I don’t like surprises. But I love these.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.