Two years and four months ago I stretched out across my bed. Matt walked in with a manilla folder and said he wanted to go over some things before his heart surgery. Etched all over it were dates, names of doctors, and notes he had taken during conversations. At the top:
He went through each page with me and explained what to do if something happened to him and he couldn’t take care of it. It bothered me we were doing this. He was only 34. There was no reason except for blatant pessimism for us to go over this with such detail. As the kids shuffled around us, playing with their toys and jabbing their fingers on the piano next to our bed, I teased him that if he were taking this that seriously he should give me the password to his computer. Seven years prior I was using his computer and it crashed…deleting all of his files. I swore I didn’t have anything to do with that happening except it being pure chance I had been the last one to touch it, but alas, I was never quite trusted again.
He hesitated at my request for the password.
I laughed in delight.
But then he gave me the password.
I am a watercolor artist located in Southern California.