LIFE WITHOUT YOU

AS PUBLISHED IN HEMLOCK MAGAZINE

LIFE WITHOUT YOU

By Alan N Webber

I’m seated graveside at a cemetery in Southlake Texas. Our minister is providing the committal services for my wife of the past 54 years. I can’t concentrate on his words, my mind wanders between disbelief and sheer panic. ‘Rachel, what am I going to live without you?’ repeats in my mind.

I’d spent some time here this morning walking around. Rachel and I used to come here, having the odd proclivity of enjoying old cemeteries, a diversion to everyday life.

Even though we were living on a mountain in Arizona we knew we would eventually come back to Texas. We fell in love with this cemetery, under an old oak tree that will shade us for eternity.

There has barely been any quiet time since that damn embolism in Rachel’s brain burst. I was watching football while she’d been in the backyard tending to her garden. After the game was over I wandered out back to see if she needed any help when I found her dead. She lie there in a flower bed, so serene, so beautiful, yet so lifeless.

Since, there has been a stream of people stopping by the ranch with condolences and difficult moments. They mean the best, but I’m struggling with people milling around, awkwardly giving me their condolences, making me more melancholy. They mean well, but it’s painful, that’s what it is. My solace has been the Bulleit bourbon kept in a flask with my initials, a gift last Christmas.

It’s a beautiful day, the humidity level bearable. The morning sun casts shadows over the Mexican white oaks and sandstone markers. Looking around during the service, I had a sensation that long-departed folks buried here were also in attendance, casually sitting on their headstones, welcoming another soul home.

Our son, JR, is seated next to me. His pretty wife, Briana, stands stoically behind him holding his hand. He too is trying his best to stay stoic, but he’s struggling.

Our daughter Michelle sits on the other side, bawling. Her husband Mark leans dutifully on the back of her chair to comfort her. The minister finished his litany, which is unsettling. It didn’t seem as if anyone in our family really listened to the minister, lost in a miasma of grief. Rachel would surely have scolded us all for not paying attention.

When the minister finished, people started to leave. Me and the kids sit there, not knowing or caring what to do next. I want to sit here awhile to reflect more on Rachel. Thoughts of our years together, the trials and tribulations, the good times and the bad, course through my brain.

The minister comes by, standing in the narrow walkway between the casket and us. Looking up with a half-smile I thank him before he continues on to pay respects to the rest of the family.

After what seems an eternity, the minister leaves, leaving us standing next to Rachel’s casket. The grandkids appear to pay their respects. I watch our seven-year-old grandson walk up to touch the casket quietly saying, “bye grandma.” I think I was the only one to see him do that, and I choke back sobs. I had no idea a child would think to do that.  

Rachel’s death would usher in changes to the family dynamic, as the heart and soul of the family was about to be lowered six feet into the ground, gone to us forever. Without her, the cohesion holding our family would crack. We’d see each other less with me in Arizona, Michelle in Chicago and JR here in Dallas running the family company.

I’d head back to my home on Black Mountain, starting a new life alone. Parents shouldn’t bury their kids and husbands shouldn’t bury their wives – that’s my opinion. I’ve done both now, having lost our daughter, Ashley, forty years ago from a heart defect. We had her re-buried here at this spot, between Rachel and me. I can only imagine their blissful reunion. I began to wonder how long it would be before I joined them.  

On the ride back to the ranch I sit up front next to the driver. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, just wanting to be with my thoughts. Rachel and I had started this trucking company forty five years ago with hardly a dime to our name. I was a trucker before that and had made friends with a shipping manager who promised to give us business if I started my own company. Rachel was smarter than me and charmed a banker to give us credit to purchase some used equipment. We worked hard, night and day, eventually building to a 500 truck company, warehouses in three states, and our own ranch, grossing $200 million per year. I wouldn’t trade those days when we were broke and working our butts off for all the heifers in Texas.

In no time, we were back at JR’s ranch north of Dallas. It used to be me and Rachel’s before we gave it to JR and moved to Arizona. Rachel didn’t want to go, but I felt it would be good for JR to establish himself in the business without his old man looking over his shoulder.

The property has a casita, which I lease year round so we always had our own space when coming back to Texas. The living room had a giant fireplace we spent evenings huddled around. I will probably die here if they ever coax me off that mountain.

Parking in the driveway everyone heads toward the house. I veer off to the casita without saying anything to anyone. I head straight to the bedroom and lat down on the bed; dreading sleeping alone again tonight. I must have fallen asleep cause JR was shaking me.

“Dad,” he said gently, “Wake up. People are starting to come to see you.”

“You handle it,” I said, rolling over.

“Come on, pop,” he insisted. “They want to see you.”

I stare at the wall, wishing everyone would go away. Dammit, I had to get up to do this for the kids. Their mother had just been buried for Christ’s sake, the only reason causing me to get up. I swing my feet over the side of the bed. ‘Damn you, Rachel,’ I think to myself again.

The following morning, I drove to the office early. JR was the president of our company and oversaw the day-to-day operations. I still keep an office, although it’s not used much. The sign outside my office reads, John Saxon, Sr., Chairman.

The staff hasn’t come in yet so the place was peaceful. JR was in his office, already on the phone and catching up for the time he had missed with his mother. I unlock my office and plop down in an over-sized leather desk chair, look at my enormous oak desk. It is empty of anything other than a family picture and a small replica of two of our trucks, one black and one white.

My thoughts turn to Rachel again. I feel so alone, and useless. I have no official business at the office and now nobody to go home to.

JR arrives with coffee. As he set one in front of me I realized I hadn’t had coffee today. By now, Rachel would have had made me two cups and sent me on my way with a smooch and a third. That thought hurt like hell.  

JR speaks first. “You, ok, dad?”

‘Damn, that should have been my line’ I think.

“Sure, son,” I reply smiling. Rachel always said I have a smile people love. “You?”

“I’ll be ok,” he replies. “I have plenty to keep me busy.” He takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “It’s you that me and Michelle are worried about.”

“Me?” I reply. “Why on earth would you worry about me?”

“Well, dad,” Jr replied. “Michelle and I both have lives and kids to go back to that will keep us busy. You’ve got a mountain to go sit on and do what?

“I’ll find something to do, son,” I reply softly.

JR, choosing his words carefully, “I can’t help but wonder what you’re going to do in AZ without mom. Maybe you should consider coming back here. There’s no reason you can’t still do some work here at the office or even the ranch. Please consider it, dad?”

He had a point, but I wasn’t ready to come off my mountain yet. I really hadn’t thought much about life without Rachel before. Now it’s all I could think about. I nod at him without saying anymore.

JR got up and went back to his office. I look out the window forlornly as one of our trucks passed. I wave and smile at the driver, but he must not have seen me.

A tear traveled down my face. ‘Rachel, how am I going to live life without you?’