This morning, he got the call. He did not want to come with us to Philadelphia, because he felt he would be poor company. I convinced him that it was not his responsibility to protect us from his less pleasant moods, and coaxed him into being with his family instead of moping at home. No one wanted that for him.
After we tell the news to the children, it is the main topic of conversation in the car. We fall into silence.
Into that silence, I am bespoken. I hear, argue, and then start to cry.
"What? Honey, don't...it looks like you need these tissues more than I do!"
He... he wants you to have his clothes.
He says he hopes nobody's mad at him, but he just couldn't do it anymore. It feels like he's sorry. And he's showing me this drawer of folded shirts. They're really soft. He wants you to have his clothes.
He was very insistant that I should tell the family that he was sorry, and hoped nobody would be mad at him. I told him that I didn't think they were ready. He sort of shrugged and I heard 'you know best' in my mind.
Well, I don't know if I know best, but I don't think my in-laws were ready, on the day of his death, to hear a message from him, especially not from me.
I know I wasn't ready.