Why did my husband have to die? I don’t know, and I’ve stopped asking. Maybe it’s because the universe needed a really funny guy in the afterlife to prank the saints. Maybe it’s because I needed to learn how to fix a leaky faucet (I haven’t—I just call the landlord and cry).
Here’s my thesis: death is the world’s worst magic trick. It makes someone disappear, and you’re left holding a hat full of confusion and dirty socks. But that magic trick also forces you to see the world differently. You notice the ridiculous details—the jar of loose pickles, the rubber chicken, the way the mailman still flinches at the door. And you laugh, because what else can you do? Dave would’ve wanted that. He always said, "If you’re not laughing, you’re not doing life right." Even in death, he’s a smartass.
