Thoughts Have Hands

The Day After Kristen
(April 1, 1971 – November 20, 2017)

Kristen missed her wake up call this morning. She would have been annoyed.

But then she didn’t have to go to work today.

I found her IPhone ringing persistently in her bag at 6 am; she couldn’t turn it off.

I stepped outside.
The sun seemed happy to be up.
Can’t say I agreed.
The air,
chilly and crisp,
said breathe.
I tried.
The sky had an air of invitation about it. I wasn’t sure I could accept.

But then this is a day Kristen would have enjoyed – No relished!
She loved Fall.

On this day, Kristen would have put on a big knit sweater and happily taken her dogs for a walk in the park.
She would have dreamed of fixing up her fireplace and sipping a glass of bourbon in front of it some day.

Today she might have planned lunch with any number of friends. And later she would have settled into her chair, pens and highlighter at the ready, computer warming her lap, and busily start checking on this and that for the next big project at her new home. She might have spent part of the day shopping for home accessories on the internet.

But today Kristen’s house sits unfinished; Elsie and Oliver are still waiting for her. I don’t know how to tell them Kristen won’t be back.

She seems to have found a new address where there are no rooms to paint and no walls to decorate.

She won’t be texting or answering our emails either. And we can forget about the Facebook posts with the orange and white themed photos.

We will have to settle for memories to remind us of her cheerful banter and no nonsense attitude, her plain sense of decency and justice, and fierce loyalty to family and friends alike.

But memories are poor substitutes for Kristen’s wit.

Today Kristen is on the other side, whatever that means; and none of us can reach her anymore. The world feels empty like her fireplace, where no fire burns; and there are not enough sweaters to keep off the chill.

Even with the sunshine, this day drips with loss, cold to the touch and easily broken, like melting icicles.

Or maybe this is just cover for the cold sobs I’m having trouble controlling right now. No surprise.

Then I can imagine Kristen bristling at the drama and thinking get over it.

The world promises us nothing,
I know. I get it.

But outside, right now, I can’t help but feel like I’m standing on thin ice, to fragile to dare to cross.

I won’t be hearing her laugh or eagerly say, oh good, time to plan the annual Christmas Eve party.

We know how to do a party mostly because she enjoyed decorating and setting the table. Peggy and Kristen worked together like old friends more than mother and daughter. It was a treat to watch as they tried out different Christmas arrangements around the house. Kristen was always playing with new ideas. I learned quickly all I had to do was lift, follow instructions, and stay out of the way.

And the laughter we shared playing Chinese Christmas. Twenty plus adults crammed into our living room around the tree, opening and stealing gifts from each other while making numerous wise cracks. Kristen could always be relied on to find the innovative gift for the letter of the year.

Kristen won’t be planning parties today or tomorrow. She won’t be taking Makenzie to Star Wars in December or babysitting for Claudia and Andy with Julia and Henry. She won’t be texting school friends or planning trips with the Friday night group.

Seems Kristen has adopted a new home somewhere else,
far from here.
We can wave at who we hope she will be,
and blow kisses across the pond to her,

But on this crisp November day all I want to do is cry out in disbelief.

And wonder why or how this day could be.

And then I remember the tough independent woman Kristen grew to be.

Kristen chose to handle her cancer in her own way. She knew what she was doing. She was determined to live free and happy and filled with hope sharing each day she had with her friends and family until the last.

I think she trusted that we could handle it from there.

So I will grieve proudly, and hug those she held close.

I will pray we will all be better some day,

And hope that somewhere just over the horizon,

On a crisp Fall day, Kristen is strolling along,

wrapped in a big fluffy sweater,

shouting out to her team:

Come on.

THH,
November 21, 2017

This poem was read today at St Ann’s Episcopal church. I wrote it this past week reflecting on her death and my deep sense of loss. A few people asked for a copy so I decided to post it here. The memorial service was well attended. Over a hundred friends and family were present. The people of St Ann’s and many of her friends filled the whole experience with grace and meaning. Kristen Deitrick would have been very happy. THH

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