Memo Left by Husband
The books on your desk are still neatly arranged, the clothes in your wardrobe are still hanging neatly, and you always clean your out-of-season shoes and neatly place them in shoeboxes. The stack of shoeboxes is still neatly placed in the closet. You like to tie pairs of clean socks together and then put them in a plastic bag, separating thin ones from thick ones. Now, those bags of socks are still quietly lying on the bedside table. But how is it that suddenly there is no owner for these things? In the future, who will still come to attend to them? They will forever remain there, waiting for their owner in loneliness, yet their owner will never return.
As I caress each of your clothes, I feel your dignified gaze still looking down from above, your warm breath expanding in your noble nostrils. But when I wipe away my tears and look at you, why are you nowhere to be seen? I search around the empty house, looking for you everywhere. Come out, my dear!
The walls echo with your voice, but I cannot see your figure.
I finally understand, you will never stand before me again!
You will never walk around in this house again, and I will never hear the sound of your footsteps, which always had a slight tap to them.
Our house is still so clean, the floor is still shining, and the bookshelves and wardrobes are still spotless. After you left, I didn't want to tidy up anymore. What's the point of cleaning without you to share it with? But then again, how can I be untidy and not do justice to you?
I always feel like you will come back at any moment. When you do, I want to greet you with a clean house and tidy blankets. This is how I treated you when you were alive, and this is how you treated me.
I often wander around the house as if in a dream, searching for you room by room. Sometimes I feel like I've found you, but then I feel like I'll never find you. I always feel like I hear something, yet I hear nothing at all. You always come to me like this, lingeringly, but then you vanish into thin air.
I will not leave the home we created together with love and life. In this house, I can always find your presence, talk to you, communicate with you. No matter how far heaven is from earth, as long as I return to this house, I return to our world of two... And when I finally leave this world, I will still come find you. We will still be husband and wife, and we will still create new happy homes together.
I have often marveled at your love and responsibility for our home, which have been my lifelong blessing, and your patient meticulousness in life has been my hope.
During the days of your postoperative treatment, you must have had a premonition that you wouldn't be with me for long, so you began preparing for the convenience of my future life: you cut a soft leather notebook in half, using one half to create a "communication memo." In this memo, you meticulously recorded various service agencies, household appliances, home maintenance phone numbers: mobile phone bill inquiry, limited TV, locksmiths, heating companies, Capital Airport inquiries, civil aviation tickets, train ticket booking, the main switchboard of the four provincial hospitals, as well as gas, air conditioning, security doors, range hood, printer repair addresses and phone numbers, and the addresses and phone numbers of furniture stores where we bought new furniture in recent years, as well as the phone numbers of the community property, health clinic, police station, neighborhood committee, small supermarkets, fire alarms, burglary alarms, medical emergencies... I counted a total of 65! You took out all sorts of manuals, warranty cards, and repair cards that had been piled up in drawers for years, and registered them one by one. You filled up a whole 10 pages! You spent several days organizing and registering them!
While you were doing these things, I hid in another room, shedding tears. You were undergoing chemotherapy, your body was weak, and I didn't understand why you were doing such a complicated thing. You just said to me, "When my health deteriorates, and you encounter difficulties, just use this notebook for help. Everything is written in it."
After you left, my son and I looked through this 10cm x 12cm notebook, its edges frayed, and we couldn't help but shed tears of sadness. My son sighed and said, "If it were us, we couldn't do what Dad did."
My dear, not long ago, the stove wouldn't light, and I contacted the repairman using the phone number you registered in the memo; the cabinet drawer wouldn't budge, and I contacted the repairman using the phone number you registered in the memo; two days ago, my printer broke down, and I still contacted the repairman using the phone number you registered in the memo. But as I walked down the street holding the printer, tears streamed down my face, because of the eternal sadness and gratitude! Because of the love and care that will never be again!
Now, I carry this little notebook with me every day, with your company, and with the eternal longing.
