Karl Springer, age 55. Father of two, stepfather to four. Widower, twice.

The day he’d gotten the note was a Sunday. He had just gotten into his Sunday’s best, all pressed and ironed, and he had felt blessed. A note from the beyond, a sign from heaven, telling him just what he needed to know, what he wanted to have: time enough to get it together, time enough to look out for his children, thereafter.

His tie laid around his neck, unmade, untied. His brown slacks with perfect pleats creased as he sat down upon his bed, and it absorbed the weight of his being, the heaviness of his grief. It took him exactly a minute, to go through the stages: fear, hurt, denial, anger, and acceptance. He gave thanks.

Johnny’s nine with Megan a year younger. They collect stickers and are sticklers for soap bubbles. Jamie’s got a real beaner of a throw and she’s so excited to begin her baseball run in grade 10. Timmy’s barely gotten to learning the alphabet but he counts adorably with his still smallish pudgy fingers, and he’ll be okay. There’s Jillian. Cathy, his gem, a trainee nurse. All those late nights and long hours. Not a word of complain and a heart like her mother’s. She’ll turn twenty-five next Wednesday. He, fifty-six. They are to have cake specially flown in by Jake. His eldest, a pilot, currently en route navigating the skies on flight 810 and the cake’s meant to be rainbow coloured and yet, vanilla flavoured. He’s thirty, soon to be married.

His children. His bundles of energy and squeals, of messy rooms and picky appetites; of long late well into night conversations about opposite sexes and genders. He couldn’t have asked for a fuller and greater life.

He lets out a sigh and pulls his socks tight. Greying whites, with a little hole there by his right – at times left – heel. Socks, she’d always given. Janie, his first. Lost to the rapids that one time. Last words, they’d never had the chance to share.

Lilian, his second, throwing her head back one moment and laughing; to next, plugged into tubes on a hospital bed. Thrown a blood clot. Ignored headaches. An aneurysm attack. There were murmurs and a last moment of clarity. The notes don’t always come. There’s still chance, and fate; mingled destinies and forgotten endings. There’re still accidents and unfortunate happenstances; out of the nowhere snatches and goodbyes, hasty. Jamie was five, then. She’d tossed a ball of aluminum so perfectly into the bin with her eyes shut from across the kitchen island, that made Lilian laugh because Cathy had said that she’d take out the trash for a month if it happened. Pouty squabbles between siblings that love each other. There were always, cookies freshly baked.

Lilian died, a joy; the last laugh had. Janie, lost and never recovered; swept away to the ocean perhaps, the ocean she’s always loved.

He had dreamt that he found her bracelet. The one she’d never leave the house without. Adorned with charms of little knickknacks they’ve collected on their road trip had fresh out of college. All the memories she wore around her wrist, as she paddled the white waters. Janie always came home from her adventures, until that one time, she didn’t.

Johnny aspires to be a diver looking for lost treasures and the ultimate mother of pearls. Megan’s a fantastic swimmer, and is the only child out of six to like carrots. Timmy’s just been potty trained and – he sheds tears as he buttons his shirt. Left over right, right over left; here, just let me – Lilian would interject, a loop placed next, completed, back around his neck. She’d sold him his first tie. That first tie for that day of black and white.

Jamie and Megan, his two daughters who’ll rouse an entire athletic stadium. His life of swim meets and tryouts, his life of breakfasts on the table and messes under; of meetings in rooms with quite too many chairs and not enough tables. His life. He straightens his tie, and loops his belt through the buckle.

He made dinner on the evening of his tomorrow. Meatloaf with marshmallow salad, and a small bowl of boiled carrots. A movie night, he suggested, and his pride and joy sat around him through the 2 hour and 53 minutes film. They each had a slice of that improbable cake and he gave thanks for a perfect evening spent. He kissed each of his children goodnight, and one too to Jillian his present wife. Nightlights shut, stories read, children loved, and he had called his sister to continue what he couldn’t.

Karl Springer, age 55, father of two, step father of four, passed away on the last tomorrow he’ll ever have. There were letters of love you always, and it’s not really goodbyes. He shared proper last words; grateful with the knowledge that at the very least, he knows. Karl Springer, age 55. Another birthday never had. Widowed twice, and a widow maker, that one last night.

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