The sealed envelope from the Vitals Statistics Administration slept sideways in my mail organizer for a year. Knowing was one thing. Seeing the notarized stamp on my husband’s death certificate was something altogether different. It arrived the day after my first Thanksgiving as a widow. I was married for 20 years; We had some good memories, lessons learned, and faded dreams, but we weathered the storms. At 27, we were hopeful that our happily ever after could be achieved; we both thought it was possible to live forever. Life had another way of showing us reality. Two headlines told stories of death in our household on January 26, 2020; it was the day Kobe Bryant died and the day the world was entering an unfamiliar space of solitude.
“The coronavirus is spreading rapidly throughout the globe. The deadly virus has killed nearly dozens and more than 1400 new cases have been reported with two confirmed cases in the U.S. Stay tuned to Tiger One News for more updates.”
We lived on a farm in picturesque Dutchess County, New York. I refer to it as God’s Country with its strong oak trees, plush lawns, crashing waters with fresh fish, and air as clean as the first day Oxygen hit the scene. Literally, it was the perfect setting to live off the land, so the chance of us being infected with the virus was slim. Our closest neighbors were two miles away. We grew our own food, make as many consumable products as possible. We reduced, reused, and recycled anything possible. We owned livestock, and utilized the land as often as the earth allowed. Alvin’s former life as an educator afforded us the opportunity to homeschool Asher, our son, until the school system came up with a plan during the quarantine period for virtual learning.
“Shell! I’ll be right back. I’m running to the hardware store; I need a part for the plow now.” he yelled as he closed the red barn door that housed our horses.
I ran out after him, "Al! Take a mask, babe!” I reminded him after taking one off the five-tiered shelf that housed unopened feed. Al tipped his brown cowboy hat, pulled me close and kissed me in what would be our last moment of intimacy. "You're always looking out, girl!"
Alvin was only gone for an hour and seemed fine upon his return. Two days later, I rolled over to a furnace. He had a fever that was hotter than cauldron pot. It was the coughing and congestion that made me worry. He was sure he had the flu and decided to fight through it. Asher and I weren’t convinced and wore masks around the house in case COVID had entered our home. Hydration and rest did not provide Alvin any sign of relief after three days, so we made the trek to the nearest hospital, which was 45-minutes away.
Asher stayed home, and I drove through the picturesque landscape of snow-capped mountains and streams of water from ice that melted from the warmth of the sun. The green foliage had taken a hiatus for winter, but there were still trees standing tall with green leaves that live forever.
“I’m glad we moved here, Shell,” Alvin mustered to stay in between coughs.
“You had a vision for us, so I followed,” I responded.
“Thank you for trusting me, and helping me give Asher the best life possible. I love you.”
“I love you too, Al. Where is all this coming from?” His sentiments concerned me because he was never one to emote at length; he was a man of few words, but showed me through his random acts of kindness.
“I’m just sayin’! Cough! Cough!” I’m just sayin’, babe.”
The rest of the car ride was quiet. I just held his hand. COVID or no COVID, Al was my ride or die. Pardon the pun, because after being on a hospital ventilator for a week, our last moments really were just that; and it broke my heart.
