Last Summer

by Mary Thurman Yuhas

Instead of the soggy Saturday the weatherman had promised, bright sunshine

awakened me. Just minutes later I was relaxing in my favorite living room chair, reading

the paper and sipping on a cup of coffee. “Not a cloud in sight,” I absentmindedly said,

peering over my reading glasses to get a better look at the flawless sky.

“Good. I’m going for a long run,” my husband, John, piped up.

Translated that meant he would diddle around all day and finally leave around three

or four that afternoon. He would not return until a couple of hours later with no time left

to mow or repair the broken trellis or clean out the garage. My face was burning and it

took all my willpower not to spit out, “What a surprise.”

Glaring at him I snarled, “Can you go running this morning? I need some help around

here. The yard has to be mowed today. It's starting to look like a jungle out there.”

After my angry words, I buried my face in the paper until he left the room.

Our large yard was pure joy for me.  He could have lived in a condo and probably

would have preferred it. To keep peace, we had already compromised. "I'll mow the

front if you'll mow the back," I proposed. 

"Alright," he reluctantly agreed, but we didn’t specify a time. My mistake.

That last summer we bickered over everything, like two opposing lawyers going at it

in court. If only we had known it would be our last one.

Once I was outside the day felt as perfect as it looked so instead of getting right to my

work I talked to my next-door neighbor, Jean for a while. Next I took our Welsh Corgi,

Fred, for a leisurely walk and finally drove to the dry cleaners to pick up my favorite,

blue dress before the store closed at noon.

By the time I hauled the lawn mower out of the garage, the sun was directly overhead.

An hour later, when I finished mowing, I was beat.

"If you make lunch, I'll mow the backyard,” I shouted through the front screen door

hoping even if he were still angry, he’d make a sandwich for me.

"You sure you want to do that?" he shouted back.

“I’m sure,” I said as I slowly trudged to the back dragging the lawnmower behind me.

A huge maple tree that hung over our patio created a backyard oasis, and once I

plopped down away from the heat, I wasn’t certain I could get up again. I should have

gone upstairs and taken a shower instead of volunteering to mow. The sweat, dripping

into my eyes reinforced what a lousy deal I’d made.

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When John stepped outside, two Diet cokes in hand, he was cool and clean. Clearly,

he had not gone on his run yet.

“Is this lunch?” I asked before I guzzled the cool, dark drink, too tired to argue.

“Just wait. I’ll be right back.”

He loved surprises, big or little ones, it didn’t matter. Shortly he returned with a

plate of nachos that he had cooked in the microwave. As we ate, I gradually cooled off

inside and out. "Great lunch. You’re hired,” I said unable to hold back a smile.

Truce underway he returned my smile. “You look hot. Want me to hose you

down?”

“After I mow the back, if I’m not dead.”

This time he laughed. Our three children were gone for the day. Twenty-two-year old

Debbie was at Donaldson’s, the department store at the mall where she worked during the

summer. Our two boys, Jon, 19, and Josh, 18 had gone to a friend’s cabin. So, it was

just the two of us, a rarity at our house.

Surprising me again he said, “The front looks nice.”

“You looked?

“I looked.”

“Thanks. I think it does too.” And as if on autopilot I talked non-stop about my

precious plants and how much they had grown and how I hoped when someone passed by

if they were having a bad day, the yard would cheer them up a little. He listened

attentively.

“Hey,” I said when I finally grew tired of talking. “What do you think about when

you run?”

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“A lot of things.”

“Like?”

“Oh, things like what we’ll do when we retire.”

Retirement was the last thing on my mind. The only time we ever talked about it

was when he lamented how we weren’t saving enough money for it. Since we were in

our forties, it didn’t seem that pressing to me.

As he continued talking about his dreams, his face brightened. “I’d like to buy a

little trailer and drive on all the back roads all the way across the country. We’d get up n

the morning, and I’d go running and you could read the paper.”

“What about Fred?”

“He’d come with us.”

“That sounds perfect. I’d love it, but that’s a long time from now,” I replied while

thinking to myself that sixty-five was so far away, it could have been on another planet.

“I know. Doesn’t hurt to think about it though,”

“You’re right. It doesn’t hurt to think about it.”

Conversation between the two of us came easy that day. The way it was before we

were married, before we had children, before we had real jobs and mortgages and people

depending on us. One hour passed and then another as we continued talking, like two old

friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time.

As we lingered, I looked down and when I looked back up sitting across from me

was the twenty-year-old I had fallen in love with so many years earlier. His brown hair

had grayed and thinned a little and his face had some lines in it, but he was still that same

gentle and loving man who had captured my heart almost as soon as I met him. And, I

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fell in love with him all over again. I could see he felt the magic of the day too although

neither one of us said a word. I wondered why we had allowed life’s busyness and

problems to take over, and I promised myself I would not let that happen again. A

promise I kept

Looking at my watch, I stood up. “Let’s talk some more later. I have to mow.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, and he did.

One morning the following May I woke up to him dying in our bed. As fit and trim

as he was, he was having a heart attack. Within minutes, he was gone.

As difficult as it was to say “good-bye” to him at his funeral, it was nothing in

comparison to saying “hello” to life without him. I cried and grieved and grieved and

cried. Food lost its appeal. Sleeping became something I used to do, and I was always

cold.

At night, when I went to bed, I would wrap myself in his favorite, blue sport coat. It

smelled like him and comforted me a little, but soon the scent was gone and I stopped

sleeping with it.

When the first awful, anniversary of his death arrived, family and friends spent the

day with me and that helped. But once they left I was alone again with my grief, and it

gnawed away at me as relentlessly as a jungle predator finishing off its prey. On the

second anniversary I was alone except for one friend who was a widow too. She brought

a candle that burned for 24 hours and while it is a Jewish custom and we are both

Catholic, I loved it. It warmed my heart.

That afternoon I knew what I had to do or I no longer had any purpose. I went to the

mausoleum and looked around to assure myself I was alone before placing my hand on

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the cold marble slab that housed his ashes. “John, I’ve come here every Sunday for the

last two years. You know how much I’ve missed you. You know how many deals I’ve

tried to broker with God to bring you back. You know how hard it’s been.”

Brushing tears from my eyes I continued, “I finally know you’re not coming back so

today I’m really saying good-bye. I’m not going to visit you every week anymore. I’ll

miss you forever, and I need you to help me let go.”

I kissed my hand and rubbed it across his name. “I don’t want you here all alone so

I’m leaving this,” and before I left I taped this note by his name.

It was the last paragraph from a love letter I had written for him on our 25th

anniversary.

“And when we both are gone, our children, our children’s children and so on will

remain as a loving confirmation that once upon a time, there really was an us who lived

happily ever after.”

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