#splitting the difference

Four years and two months after meeting Jorge, we eloped to Brooklyn City Hall. He’s made me laugh harder, love more fearlessly, and heal more fully than I could’ve hoped. Thanks to each of you for following-slash-cheering-me-on these past nine years: from confused widow to biological mom to new wife. Here’s to all the chapters that led me here...and to those ahead. 

Last year, I marked Alberto’s deathiversary with a permanent mark on my forearm in the shape of a bird. This year, I did something more his speed: cleaned out the last storage unit in my life. Boxes of files from his office, loads of his photography supplies, and a buncha remnants from my California life. Alberto was a practical minimalist and over the last nine years, I’ve sensed him cheering me on whenever I’ve downsized my possessions and expenses. This year’s March Fifteenth project required a haul to Salvation Army, seven trips to the trash chute, and hundreds of decades-old documents fed to the paper shredder…all to the soundtrack of his greatest hits. Today involved more sweat than tears, but in order to store the camera stuff in my apartment, I had to access a living-room cabinet that I haven’t opened in several years. It’s the one containing condolence cards, our mementos, newspapers with his obits, childhood photos, and other awesome hard-copy triggers. Also, this hyper-packed cabinet won’t accommodate another paper clip, let alone a giant SLR and its accessories, which means I’m gonna have to purge it. I cringe away from the cabinet and call Alberto’s Mom, who is essentially him—if he’d lived past 40 and were a woman. An hour of love, laughter, and commiseration about the Douche-in-Chief later, I’m ready to purge so I open a beer and the cabinet. A few ad industry books and art catalogues are easy targets, but as I’m reorganizing things around the camera, I encounter two books that I don’t recognize. Of course I don’t. Because they’re guest books from the funeral week. Books I could never bring myself to read. Not trying to go down a rabbit hole tonight, but before I can remind myself of this, my curiosity opens the first one…and I encounter phrases like this: “Alberto showed me how to sop up the sauce of life.” “He made such good bacon!” “He made me feel like family.” “The world won’t be the same without his humor and style.” “He was first my jefe, and then my friend.” “I can still see his smile from here.” Not mad at the overstuffed cabinet. Or my curiosity. I can still hear his smile from here too.

Heart of gold. (Chelsea, Manhattan)

Eight years ago today, I awoke to the harrowing reality of widowhood. It’s taken many sloppy-sad moments, joyous days and splitting of differences to reach this part in the movie. The part where I could spend Alberto’s deathiversary in a state other than anxiety. Where I could spend it peacefully and permanently memorializing him on my body via a bird in flight. As an ad man, he understood the power of branding. Through this tattoo, I’m acknowledging how much I learned from his life and his death. I’m thanking him for bringing me to NYC and changing my life. Twice. Because of him, I’ve figured out my authentic self…and found someone who takes me exactly as I am. Couldn’t have found my wings without him, so today I gave him a set of his own.

“Thank you for your hard work, Director Babygirl.”

— Corey, Oregon (coreystravelblogworld)