Normally, after a long story, the postscript to the narrative conclusion would be titled ‘epilogue.’ This literary convention is particularly common when the writer is jumping ahead in the story with the characters.
Perhaps to your chagrin, I’m not doing that. I’m resisting because an epitaph is also a conclusion after a conclusion and, in the case of this blog, I think I’ll find myself reverting to junior high school P.S, P.S.S., P.S.S.S., Infinitum. Let’s just say, here’s my quick and dirty catch-up.
Constance’s father and I got divorced. I’m not going to comment on that except to answer two questions. First, many people have asked me which of us got her cremated remains. This strikes me as both the most intimate and inappropriate question one can ask. I’m going to answer now and I’m never going to answer it again. He and I always had two urns. We got two from the funeral home. We both agreed not to spread her remains. Second, people often ask about how this impacts the charity work that we do in her memory. We both still love and miss her intensely. We both still volunteer and donate in her memory. That was true when she was alive, it was true in our requests upon her passing for memorial donations to her charities instead of flowers, and it is still true now.
I would like to take a moment to thank all of you who continue to make charitable donations in Constance’s memory. Thank you. Just this week, I received some lovely emails from Constance’s charities alerting me to gifts from Emmy, Meg, and Erika honoring Constance. Thank you to everyone who remembers her by supporting her causes.
Constance’s childhood home sold. There were a lot of hard feelings involved. I miss Constance so much that the thought of that home fills me with anger for the adulthood she didn’t get.
After a series of hotels, sublets, and guest rooms, I’ve stayed in the same apartment for a few months now. Special thanks to Florence, Vanessa, Lola, Papa, and that other friend who asked me not to mention her by name because she’s convinced that you will move in with her too, which you definitely would do because it is a pretty posh suite.
I don’t know why anyone ever stops living in their friends’ guest rooms. It’s like being at a slumber party where you can have whatever you want to eat delivered, chill with your BFFs, and no bullies write on your face if you fall asleep first. Conversely, a friend met me for lunch outside a hotel I was staying at in Streeterville and said with all the conviction in the world, “You’re definitely going to get raped and murdered here.”
Despite the unparalleled appeal of my friends’ guest rooms, of which the primary feature was my friends being there to talk to until their husbands’ bedtimes, I was able to pull together a little address stability for the United States Postal Service and stay at the same place for several months now. I’ll pause for your applause and admiration.
Speaking of stability, I’m happy to say that I am gainfully employed and have been throughout the loss of Constance. This is really to the credit of my bosses as much as me. My job isn’t easy but I’m lucky to have it. I am not easy but I’d like to think they’re fortunate to have me too.
There’s so much more to tell you but I had to start somewhere.