The following is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
At least once a week, usually on Sunday, I grab an old, red broom from the front yard and sweep the front porch.
The broom is showing its age. The bristles look like false eyelashes that Dolly Parton would reject and it’s becoming hard to tell the broom was red as more and more of the color wears off.
My wife, Barbara, had a strict protocol for brooms. The new one went into the kitchen and was only meant for in-the-house use under severe penalties. The broom that it replaced moved to the front yard for sweeping the porch. The broom that was there moved to the back yard to sweep a 3-foot by 4-foot slab and the next destination for that broom was the trash dumpster.
Unfortunately, Barb is no longer here to enforce the rules. She died from complications of leukemia in 2019 after a two-year battle during which she fought the cancer like Wonder Woman on steroids. I remember teasing her as she swept the front porch. I told her, “I’m not rich, but I’m pretty sure I can afford a new broom because that one is worn out.” She’d shake her finger at me and say, “not yet.”
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On Sundays, I say a prayer for Barb in front of a metal stand I fabricated to display some of her favorite things (just a hint, most of them involve cats). I check out the hummingbirds she loved so much as they fight over who gets to eat first. I do my best to keep them fed. Then, I wrap my hands around the old red broom that she used to wrap her hands around and sweep.
After I sweep, I sit in one of the chairs on the front porch and close my eyes. I remember the times we sat on the porch and watched the world go by. We were married for 34 years. Barbara took over family celebrations and holiday meals after her mother died. I can see our home full of people, laughter and joy. I wonder how an average Joe like me got so lucky to have such a wonderful wife like her.
I open my eyes and our home is empty and I’m surrounded by silence. There will be no more broom rotations. The old red broom will be here as long as I am and I don’t care if all the bristles fall out. To steal a line from the NRA, they can have my old red broom when they pry it from my cold dead hands.
If you have people you love, tell them. Life can change in the blink of an eye. Mine did.
Jeff Britt is retired and lives in Tucson.