Anything (Edited)

Anything

He was dead, my husband that is. Such an untimely end, he was just about to turn 26. I know, he died young and that’s what hurts the most. He died before our life could even really begin. No kids, one vacation, good memories, but not enough. And after everything he and I had been through, together and separately. Couldn’t God have given us a little more time to build those everlasting memories, to have children, to live out our goals and dreams? I know everyone has there time, but still. But all of this was bound to happen, regardless.
My husband was a sick man, even back in high school, but that never made me love him any less. The doctor had diagnosed him with cancer, and he notified us that is had already spread to his lymph nodes. It was already too late for us to do anything, and I couldn’t imagine how my husband felt. So I had to be strong for the both of us, but it weighed too heavily even if both of us were to carry it. It’s ironic, because one day he and I were laughing, but, then the next I find myself making funeral arrangements and watching casket being lowered into the ground.
I remember it so well, the day he died that is. That day felt like it was going to be my death date as well. It’s not every day that you wake up next to a dead person. I thought he was only sleeping in, but I should’ve known better. It never crossed my mind when I went downstairs to make his favorite breakfast: scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. When I went back to the room I noticed he hadn’t moved an inch, which was odd since he was notorious for tossing and turning in his sleep. He would even let out a snore here and there, but it was silent and his chest wasn’t rising at all. It was then I knew – he was dead. Everything dropped out of my hands, but when the plate and tray hit the ground I couldn’t hear a thing like God had turned the volume down to zero as I ran to his body. Too soon, I kept telling myself as I wept over him.
I hadn’t like to make funeral arrangements before hand, because by planning, it made it feel like it was already over. I was in denial I guess, but it was a hard reality to accept. During that time I had hated making funeral arrangements, and not because of the money. That was the least of our concern, actually. My husband was a successful writer, so money had never been an issue for us. “Us” sounds like it’s supposed to be forever, but nothing is set in stone, right?
Sorry, but making the funeral arrangements wasn’t easy. There wasn’t one thing I could do that wouldn’t end with me crying. My sister had to accompany me to most of the places I had to go to. She was my support and I was glad that she was there to help me through my troubled times.
It was weird seeing the funeral home, with all those caskets. I couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable. When I had told the man who my husband was he was trying to sell me his most expensive casket saying, “Nothing less than the best for such a famous author.” That’s what had always worried me about his fame that people would try and take advantage of it. Not that I had a problem with paying whatever amount of money, but I didn’t want people to treat my husband any differently than they would a normal customer.
Devon, that was my husband’s name, had always told me if he ever became someone who everyone knew, he never wanted to be treated differently. He wouldn’t want to have any special treatment because he was famous and someone else wasn’t. I always respected that about him, he was very caring. Also, more considerate than most guys I had run into.
We had met in high school. I didn’t like him to begin with, because I thought he was trying to play me. I didn’t have the best reputation in the school; guess you could say that I was a little promiscuous. Not that I enjoyed being that, but I was convinced that that was the only way I could get a guy to like me. But guys never treated me the way I deserved to be treated, and every guy had only wanted me for sex, story of my life. Devon was different, though I didn’t believe him at first. I thought he was just trying to be slick and play me, also I felt that since he wasn’t looking for sex he was trying to get something else. Never would’ve imagined that I would’ve married him.
I had known he was sick, but never knew with what. But he spent a lot of time at the doctors. Even in high school he would go home early. Knowing all of that I still wanted to be with him, but the only thing that scared me was I never knew how long it was going to be.
Now that I look back on it, I feel bad for the way I treated him when he first tried to ask me out. Devon was a jittery guy, a little bit of a nerd even. But be that as it may, he was the sweetest guy in the world. He knew exactly how to treat a lady with respect, unlike those other guys at our school. My promiscuity didn’t seem to faze him too much, I was glad. I couldn’t have imagined how it would’ve been if my past had mattered to him, but he would always tell me the same thing, “You’re past may be your foundation, but it doesn’t dictate how the end result is going to be.”
His words always gave me comfort. He made me realize that who I was back then wasn’t who I wanted to be.
My dream was to be a model (you know typical high school dream), but after I met Devon, he had gotten me into writing. Since I was already writing poetry I thought it would only be a short jump to a different style of writing. He would always laugh at me when I showed him something I wrote, not because it was bad or anything. He did it out of care and Devon helped me so much in developing my writing skills. His skills when it came to writing were almost unmatched.
I remember how Devon was when it came to his own writing. He was always so critical of himself, and everything had to be a rewrite. Nothing ever seemed to make it as is. I never really took a full grasp of what he meant when he said this but he would tell me, “When you’re a writer you eventually fall in love with rewriting.” It took me a while to figure what he meant, but I believe it was something along the lines of: when you write, for the first draft, you’ll love it at first, but then as time goes on and your ideas expand, you begin to not like what you initially wrote and you want to add more to it, or at least that’s what I got from it. Knowing Devon, he probably had an entirely different take on it.
He had finished writing his first book when he had gotten out of high school. It was about the tales of different students we knew, names changed of course, and some of the trials and tribulations they went through. It was a big success, and after that day we really didn’t have to worry about money anymore. It was amazing, Devon was only 18 when his book was published and he was going on book tours and doing signings. People really seemed to enjoy it. The reviews we read claimed it was “A Story looking into how real students behave.”
When we read that the biggest smile came on his face. I had never seen him that happy before, and I was proud of him on top of that. I loved seeing him make his dream come true, and it was then when I found a new dream, to add on top of my wanting to be a writer. I wanted to be with Devon forever.
My previous boyfriends had never been as ambitious as Devon, and couldn’t hope to be now. Devon had everything in perspective and he knew that he going to reach for the stars, even if he had to fall a couple of times.
During the time between his book being published and us graduating, I tried my hand at writing a short story. It was about an abusive father, and a look inside to his past as to how he became how he did. Devon helped me edit and revise it, and once people in our school started to get wind of it, everyone seemed to like it. That was the second time I had seen Devon smile really big, I knew he was proud of me.
I was 21 when he asked me to marry him. He did it in the most – unusual, but sweet way. He had called me over, so I could look over his new book he was working on. He hadn’t told me anything about it, so I didn’t know what to think. He let me in and we made our way up to his room. I sat down and looked at the screen and opened up the file. And to my surprise it said in the oddest font, “?” I didn’t know what any of it meant, until I turned around and saw him with a box in his hand, then I figured the weird fond must’ve translated to, “Timika, will you marry me?”
And his words, his words I will never forget till the day that I die. “Timika, will you help in the writing the rest of our life together.” Once I had heard those words my eyes swelled up, it felt like my sinuses were acting up, and I had wrapped my arms around him, because I had accomplished my own goal.
It took about two years to get the wedding plans finalized, with his book tours and my attending college. But finally on June 21st everything came to fruition and I was Misses Timika Johnson. I knew my mother was happy, I have never seen her cry too much. But I knew exactly what she was thinking, “My knuckle head daughter finally made the right choices. She finally found someone whose going to treat her good.”
Looking back on the past, I guess we did have some pretty good memories. But that’s all I have now. I look at the bedroom we made love in, his closet that had a lot of clothes I picked out for him, his achievement room, which held all of his books he’d written and the awards he received for them. It’s hard having to walk around the empty house, knowing no one is going to be there but you.
He still gets checks for his books. The amount that he used to get on them didn’t compare to what he was getting paid for them now. Seems like the rumors are true that when you die, everything thing you did becomes more valuable. Well they can have the value of his books; they could have it all if it would mean that Devon would come back.
Devon had written about 20 books in his life time. Some dealt with topics about his abusive uncle, who’d beat his wife. He wrote one about families sticking together even when everything comes easy to them and they get lost in the glitz of it all (that was my favorite one). He wrote fantasy stories that children enjoyed, but no movie rights. He didn’t want his books turned into movies. “Timika, when they take a book and turn it into a movie, then every vision the author initially had, goes out the window. It also makes the book lose meaning, at least that’s how I feel about it.” He always told me that, I never argued with his logic because it was his vision and his work.
He was always smart like that. He never let the publishers try and trick out of money. All of his deals were looked over with a fine tooth comb, and if there was something there that he didn’t like they would renegotiate.
All these memories are starting to hurt. I can feel it in my chest, but the more I talk about him, the more I feel that I’m keeping his spirit alive, his legacy.
We had planned on having kids, but we never got around to it. We both had agreed that we had wanted a big family. But now, I don’t ever see anything like that happening. Personally, I don’t want to have anyone else’s kids. I’m perfectly fine staying in this big house by myself. I don’t want anyone to come here trying to replace Devon in my heart. I’ll probably ask my sister if she wants to stay with me.
Anyways, I digress. Devon always knew a lot of things, it was almost creepy. It was as if he had premonitions about things, much like a woman’s intuition. He had the guy version of it. There were so many times he would tell that everything would be alright, and it was, or he knew deep in his heart that something was going to happen, and it did. I remember once he had told me that the story I had wrote before, about the abusive father, was going to change someone’s life. I told myself he had gone off the deep end, but he told me, “Words have magically powers. They can do some of the most amazing things, if they are put together correctly. Trust me, Timika, you’re story is going to change someone’s life, just you watch.”
It was about a week after that I had received a letter, from someone I didn’t know. The letter was from a little girl and her father. It talked about how they knew someone who was going through the same thing as the main character in my story, and they had decided to get the father help and take the little girl in until her father got better.
I didn’t know what to think about that, or even better, how did they see my story. That same day I had gone to see Devon and asked him about it, he then showed me that he posted my story on his website. Someone had got in contact with him about my story, mistaking that he wrote it and wanted to thank him, but he gave them my address and told them that I was person who wrote it.
Devon always tried surprising me, and he never failed in doing so. The ring he got me surprised me, and the house we bought, after we got married, was so marvelous. Considering the area we came out of, it was like a gift from God. I could’ve never imagined that we would get out of a place like that in a million years. The place was just so damn depressing, the place we grew up that is.
The neighborhood that surrounded our school wasn’t a pretty sight to look at. I couldn’t see anyone smiling about waking up, knowing that’s what they had to look at. There were even times when I slept over at Devon place, because I didn’t feel comfortable at my own home. And he was respectful, too, always taking the couch downstairs while I slept in his bed. Though I would’ve preferred him sleeping in the bed with me, just so I could have that comfort and warmth of him.
Now I can’t even anticipate it anymore. Every night, since he died, I’ve had to go to bed by my lonesome, not even sleep, but just toss and turn. It felt like that action of his rubbed off on me.
Something I had always known about Devon was that he was a man who kept his promises. It reminded me of the time I had to deal with my cousin’s death, and I don’t know how he did it, but Devon words had calmed me down. Everything he had said to me had made my tears go away, made my heart stop aching, and gave me peace of mind. I did say that he could work magic with his words.
I think that’s what made him such a good writer, was knowing that he could relate to people, and there situations. He always had a personal story for any problem that was brought to him. And, of course, it seemed like he had an answer for everything. But I was always worried if all those people relying on ever made him ware thin. I wonder if dealing with other people’s problems acted as a catalyst to his cancer. No, I shouldn’t even think that, besides its not like there’s anything I can do about it now.
The day of his funeral, that’s a day I will never forget. Initially, it was only going to be my family and his, but so many other people had showed up. During the ceremony, when everyone was filling into the church, everybody who walked by his casket and placed one of his books in there with him.
Seeing that I realized how many people had loved him, other than me, and had taken something from his stories. How many people his books had actually touched or helped was amazing. A lot of people had ended up standing outside, or in a different part of the church. I was happy to see that many people come out for him; it made things a bit easier to deal with.
His mother was crying hysterically, as was I. His father tried to keep his composure, trying to be the strong male figure, but I had known he really wanted to cry. His little brother stood there next to his father and tried to keep the same stoic look on his face, but his little nose kept wrinkling and tears couldn’t stop flowing. Even my mother couldn’t help but cry along with Devon’s mother.
There were a lot of words spoken, a few by family members, a few by close friends, and even some spoken by readers of his books. I said a few words, but I can’t even recall what I said. Something a long the lines of, “Devon saved my life. I know when a lot of people say that it seems out of place, but I truly feel if he had not come into my life when he had, then I would not be standing here a proud woman. He gave his all into everything he did, and his talent wasn’t just writing books, but writing books that gave people hope, that gave people courage, that gave people a reason…” I can’t remember too much more, and if I did I would end up crying.
Then the next day, I couldn’t bear to describe his casket lowering, at his will reading, everything was left to me. In his note he told me to divvy it up whatever way seemed right. He already knew I would help any of our family members, if needed. But there was one more thing he left me, a note.
I’ve been fiddling around this whole time reminiscing about him, but nothing is going to bring him back. Sometimes I wish I could’ve gone with him, but God has his time for all of us and unfortunately mine isn’t here yet. What could God possibly need me to stay here for?
The heartbreak alone makes it hard to sleep at night. Sometimes I will find myself not being able to sleep. I’ve even started to hug a pillow, pretending that it’s him. The thought of him being gone even makes me sick to a point where I throw up, that’s been happening a lot lately. Sometimes I get so excited, because I feel like I’ve woken up from a horrible dream but come to realize that its reality. I know this may sound crazy, but sometimes I try and go through my days and act like he’s off on another book tour. That never last that long though, and the only thing I have to remember him by is his books, this house, and this letter.
This letter is that last thing he wrote, apparently. I never read it because I was afraid of what it was going to say. Actually, what could it say? I guess it was my own fear, because if I read this letter then that’s it, no more Devon.
I have to accept it sooner or later, let’s see what my late husbands final words were to me.
“Dear Timika,
By the time you read this I am probably dead. Sounds very cliché, I know, but it is true. Remember what I told you about cliché in writing? Try to avoid them at all cost, because they are something people hear on the regular. But back to the topic at hand, by the time you read this I will be dead. I told my lawyer to give you this after I was already six feet deep.
First off, I wanted to say that I love you. It was the best decision in my life to marry such a wonderful and ambitious young lady, plus I was happy you looked past my nerd exterior. And I’m glad you gave me the chance to be yours.
My father always told me, ‘Devon, you don’t choose the girl, the girl chooses you’ and I always remember that when I think of you because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel special knowing that YOU chose ME.
You truly are my soul mate, in and out of life, in my case out of life. And I know sometimes you’ll think why couldn’t you have gone with me, but you have a much more important purpose. God gave you a job, and you have to see through it till the end, Timika.
There was a weird feeling I had before I died, I hope that what I’m about to write is true, but I’m hoping that I died with a smile on my face. No, it isn’t because I accepted death, but it knowing that I was accepting death with peace of mind. Peace of mind to the fact that you won’t be alone. I’m not talking about your sister, mother, or my mother, but our unborn child.
Once you read this letter I want you to get tested, if you aren’t completely confident in my words. But that’s why God didn’t let you go with me, he wanted you to stay so you could see our child live, dream, hope, prosper, and grow.
I am a little sad that I won’t be able to see them during this time, but I want you to tell me all about it when you join me in heaven. You can’t leave yet, you still have so many stories to live out and so many to make yourself. So do all that, so by the time you get here I can hear every single one of them.
I’m sorry these are the last words you’ll ever see from me, well at least anything newly written. But I want you to know that I will NEVER stop loving you or my child. And I know that you feel the same way.
Timika, I love you so much and I was honored to have you as my life partner. Goodbye, until you join me in heaven.

Love, Devon”
It’s hard to hold back my tears right now since there already coming, and they won’t stop. I looked down at my stomach and rubbed and felt it move and rumble a little.
This is my, no; this is our child, Devon.
How do you work the magic that you do? How could you have known something like this before me? I knew you were the one for me, Devon. I always knew you were special.
And I’m sure our child will be proud of their father as well.
Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to live out our dreams. Thank you for allowing me to find my purpose in life again. Thank you for guiding me, and taking care of Devon. And thank you for blessing us with a child, one who I can make memories with, one I can see grow and live out there dreams, one who I can only hope will meet someone as special as I did. Thank you.