Dear Mark,
Why'd you have to go and be all unnecessary?
I'm going to be using that word of yours for the rest of my life, you know. Too hot outside, "unnecessary". Rude remark, "unnecessary". Sudden death, very much unnecessary.
I wrote a wholly insufficient memorial to you within minutes of my finding out you were gone. Imagined reading it to you, the way I read so many blogs to you since 2016. Lacking your voice, checked with Eva before I published it. So much left unsaid. So much it's impossible to say. But I can say more, and I will.
Now that the shock has worn off, this wasn't as much of a shock as it felt like. It's not as if you were at Death's door -- I'd have never expected you not to wake up that morning -- but looking back, you'd taken the freeway exit that leads to Death's neighbourhood and I think we all knew it.
But damnit, it never really felt like it. Because no matter what came along to afflict you, be it heart attacks, covid, slips and falls, or the cancer that cost you a large chunk of ear, you always came back. Only now with the benefit of deadsight do I realize you didn't come all the way back the last few times.
You died suddenly and yet we've always known you would die suddenly. There are different ways to respond to sudden sharp snap versus slow decline and we're feeling all of them.
Eva and I always figured you'd go during one of your hellacious gastroparesis episodes. And your last one was bad, but you've had worse. You seemed to be coming back. The heaving had passed, and sooner than we had thought it might. And so I went to bed thinking let Mark take it easy the next day or two coming back up and then Eva was shaking me awake saying Mark is dead and now it's so empty...
Dolly let out a single wailing howl when you left in the hearse. It broke our hearts. So did Q.T. sitting on your bed the next morning with her long, plaintive meows. Where's Papa Maaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrk?
I say the house feels empty, and it does, but at the same time in the back of my mind you're Monty Python's parrot, just resting. You'll get up and shuffle your way to the living room. I'll make you a coffee. And you'll be there, the third leg of our stool, because tripods are famously stable and...
Fuck.
I have a lot to thank you for, Mark. First and foremost, loving Eva as you did. As you DO. Goddamnit I'm going to use the present tense there. Death doesn't diminish, let alone extinguish, love. Not even two weeks ago you two celebrated the ninth anniversary of the day I officiated at your commitment ceremony with Eva. I don't know if I ever told you this in so many words, but it felt to me very similar to the day I married her. You've been there for her in ways and at times I couldn't be, and she's grown so much in your love. I want you to know I'll take care of her as best I can. But I think you do know that.
I want to thank you for your constancy. For nine years, if you were out of the house and we weren't, something was wrong. Still true, obviously. But we almost never had to worry about leaving Dolly alone and you were always there to feed, water and cuddle the cats. It went well beyond that, though. So long as you weren't sick, we could always talk to you, get your input, share our little joys and pains, and learn from each other.
And thank you too for effortlessly giving space to Eva and I, to her alone, and to myself alone. Nine years...zero friction. I mean absolutely zero. What are the chances of that?
Finally, thank you for picking my writer's lock. I haven't been able to write anything meaningful for months. Yesterday I had to write, I had no choice. I scooped the words on top and to my surprise more bubbled up.
Have you cuddled Mooch yet? I hope all your animals have found you. Perhaps one day our souls will cross paths again.
I hope so. I really do.
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