Waiting is what you do when it rains in Aberdeen. In truth, two years isn’t enough, but it’ll have to suffice. Everything is relative, distance, time and grief.

Uncertainty and anxiety had evolved into branding irons I’d use to singe myself to sleep at night. Recently that has changed. Neither one of us had any room in our vernacular for self-pity, so why now? It’s time to move on. 

I’d read once, if you love someone you can learn to love what they love, Corcovado, Nainital, Sundarabans. As the intense rain washes over the scaly back of Aberdeen, I can imagine relocating to just about anywhere that doesn’t swim, Bukavo or Mauritania.

When we built our home, Cody insisted he craft the fireplace mantel. For the longest time, it was all about that damned chunk of redwood. He was green about it remaining natural. And so he sealed it with organic vegetable oil. Oh how he yakked it up to our friends, the lousy plumber, the off-key postal worker. Over time, he’d turned it all into a real freak show, absent the carnie sword swallowers and midway performers. Cody was a carnival barker. Boy, did he love his boasting about how the wood had been third-growth timber, exactly six feet in length, thick as an elephant’s trunk. I admit it was gorgeous when he was alive.

On top of the make-shift shrine, he demanded it display my grandmother’s devalued Hummel figurines, bric-a-brac of no real value, as well as his small glass pipe and a masculine box of wooden matches. 

He kept this collection of vintage brass keys up there too, in a shallow etched glass bowl. Cody had said it held every unlock on the planet, and how safe his magical hoarding bowl kept all of life’s in-and-outs.  I remember him sheepishly stating, “The most important key, the key to my heart, is in your hip pocket.” 

“Boo!” I’d feigned, “crappy metaphor, you can do better than that?” I’d said. We were each other’s audience, best friends, lovers. Wry banter came with the territory.

After I cremated Cody, I put his ashes in his beloved singing bowl he kept on the mantelpiece. I even fitted it with a custom made mahogany top. After, I set him up there, It didn’t take long to turn him into a shrine. 

He’d picked up the bowl in Singapore of all places. On the bottom, it says made in India. Cody said what was inside the vessel was a sort of time capsule. And, that it included all the things he loved most: his job and travels, photography, me, in no particular order. Jesus, he made it wail, the bowl.

But today, I’ve committed to clearing the chimneypiece. 

From a distance, I can still see a few of the remaining glass shards, bits of glitter, sparkling debris from the day after I’d gotten the horrible news. That’s the day I broke into pieces, raked my clinched fists across the length of his masterpiece and smashed all the delicate memories against the family room wall. Nic-knacks thundered, shattered. Brass openings stormed and rained down on the hardwood floor. I balled like a baby as I used the ShopVac to suck up most of the remaining shimmers. I never thought loving someone would cause glass sliver cuts.  

It’s been nearly two years since I’ve dusted the fireboard. It’s been untouchable until today.  I’m less resistant, more resilient now, slowly learning to accept change.

I notice he’s lighter than I recall. I’m sifting him into this cardboard box I’ve labeled–Him. I need to dust my hands. Him is going into my office closet, up high on a shelf atop the Costco packaged printer paper. He’ll have to learn to appreciate it up there. It’s as high as I can get him without having to get out the ladder and climb on the roof. 

Look, now the only thing left on the redwood mantel is a dust crater. I imagine its sole existence is a perfect circle whereby an outline endures. It’s a sharp ring, created by a crater rim of dust. The ring doesn’t appear to have a beginning or end. I fancy the loop of soot the exotic Ngorongoro crater. The Ngorongoro is a primitive African volcano that hasn’t blown it’s stack in decades. Inside the encircled chasm anything and everything is possible. 

The abyss is the exact diameter of the hole in my heart. Jesus how he loved his photography, how I miss him? Outside, at the rim, I can appreciate how it tappers into the valley of dust and ash and beyond until nothing. 

Today, before I dust it away, I’m going to imagine the crater filled with exotic ghosts of beasts: black rhinos, elephants, lions with blood the color of wheat, honey, wildebeest too, a species known as Crocuta, and spotted hyenas. It’s teaming with all things worthy and wonderful. I’ve never seen so much life before.

I’ve been told it’s still up there, on the edge of the crater, and that the aircraft is a crumpled piece of tin and hyaline wings that creak and crack in the wind. Some say it glints in the moonlight. 

I’ve gone on about this long enough, and so now I’ll buff the exotic slag with a new can of Pledge and use my favorite cotton cleaning rag. I intend to wipe and swipe it clean, the mantel, and work up a good sweat. 

After, I’m going to back up, and take a hard look at my handwork. I’ll commit to moving forward and begin to plan one awkward journey after the next. Mostly to destinations that make me a little anxious and nauseous, to prove I’m my own sense of wonder.