Today’s my birthday and I’ve been thinking about “Presents Ken has given me.” I know that makes me sound like a terrible person but just wait. It’s not avaricious in intent.

When we first met, on Carnegie Mellon University campus, we were both new master of arts students and he was a long-term employee there. That’s particularly relevant because it meant that we had a different dynamic. He wasn’t “just a student.” He didn’t study and do homework in the writing lab with the rest of us students because he worked in another building. Perhaps, if we’d spent 12-18 hours stuffed in a smelly little room together, we wouldn’t have wanted to meet in the cafeteria for lunch, or run to the on-campus deli (sadly, no longer there!). We would certainly have been friends but would we have formed a lifelong connection?

I can remember one particularly awful day — in case you are unfamiliar with CMU’s reputation, it is an extraordinarily stressful environment — when I was sitting at my little Macintosh computer, rewriting/redesigning the IRS W-2 form (yes, for the real IRS). Ken ran into the room, threw a package on my desk and ran back out again.  (I learned later in our relationship that it made him very uncomfortable to get or give presents, a hold over from his tough childhood. He got better at it when we had kids, perhaps because kids are joyful about the PROCESS — the anticipation, the presentation, the opening — even more than the actual gift.)

So, anyway, after he ran back out the door, I looked at the little paper bag. It was just a little brown bag, nothing remarkable. Having no expectations when you open something is wonderful because you’ll always be pleased by what you find. It could have been an art pencil, a sandwich or bagel (or one of his favorite pickles) from “our” little deli, a notebook from the bookstore. The on-campus options for gifting are broad!

Nope, none of those practical things. It was a candy necklace — yes, that’s right a candy necklace. It still makes me smile (and okay, cry/not cry) when I think about it. I didn’t eat it, ever. Eventually, when we moved from our first house, I had to throw it out because it got broken into bits during the move. He probably never knew that I didn’t eat it because of course I should have but that stupid candy necklace meant so much to me.

Over the years of little, unexpected gifts — car mats, music, a smoothie, nonsense poems he wrote — Ken was saying “I love you” and that’s the real gift.

It’s another difficult day, not because it’s my birthday but because it’s my birthday without Ken. I know it gets better (everyone says so) but as other — better — writers have said before me: I don’t want it to get better or easier; I want to have Ken here, with me, now.

I want Ken to help me go through all of our “stuff.” What books should I keep of the hundreds lining the shelf? Should I donate the dishes we bought together 25 years ago? I want Ken to help me make a new “to do” list. Do I need to repair the sidewalk crack that is now an entrance to Mr Chipmunk’s burrow? While I’m repairing that, should I replace the front porch that has an ever-larger crack (and a definite tilt)?

I want to ask Ken’s advice. My company posted my old boss’ job but at a lower level. I’m over-qualified by like ten years. I’m going to apply for it anyway but I’m also going to start another job hunt. Did you know, according to all the grief counselors, I’m not supposed to make any big decisions for at least a year?

There’s an orange milk crate on the sidewalk across the street from me and as I’m watching right now, maybe 10 kids, walking with their caregivers, see the milk crate, walk over, step up onto it, and jump off. They could easily go around but they don’t see that milk crate as a barrier. They see it as an opportunity.

And perhaps that’s the answer to my questions ….

Peace.