He puts his arm around his ex-wife and says ‘buzi, buzi’ just before his lips meet hers in a kiss. His kids, grandkids, and sister surround him, welcoming him home. He smiles at me from across the room like I’m an old friend, not the woman whose ear lay on his heart to hear its last beat. 

I awake with a start. This is the first time my unconscious mind has conjured my husband in many months. The Jack of my previous dreams was the one who, after a three year illness, opted for a medically assisted death, avoiding the stress of the unpredictable one his body was going to provide. Unlike today’s nightmare, those dreams of sick-Jack took me back to a period best left forgotten, when time stood still while cancer swept past, advancing through his body. This nightmare shakes me just as much, but in a different way. 

Like most dreams, it tests the bounds of logic. No-one seems to question him being present at the party. Rather than being dead, has he just returned from a trip? or jail? It's unclear. But he’s back. I don’t dwell on that detail either. Instead, I’m focussed on why I’m having a Jack-dream right now and why he’s showing me such disloyalty. Is it prompted by the helluva week I’ve had? 

Three months ago, I posted the main and upper levels of my house, fully-furnished, on sabbaticalhomes.com.  I’d spent the previous year creating the right look for the tenants I was imagining: two men (a couple), in their 30s, European, likely academics, and with enough money to pay the rent I’ve set. Why so specific? Well, in the past, I’ve had good luck setting and achieving goals. Maybe it’s not luck - maybe it’s careful planning. Regardless, I couldn’t see why I wouldn’t achieve this target. Imagine my surprise when 1100 people looked at my listing but 0 people contacted me for more information.  Nada, zilch. 

Two weeks ago, I realized if European gay couples weren’t flocking to my site, I’d have to pivot like it’s 2020.  I signed on with a realtor to find local tenants. My broker gently explained it’s hard to rent a furnished house, especially when it’s furnished. My listing is further complicated by me not giving up the yard, and the fact that Weston’s charms remain a well-kept secret.  She started posing good questions: What about letting tenants use the yard? Would I consider unfurnishing? And why not add the basement to the rented space? 

After three COVID-years of gardening, entertaining, and writing in my yard, it’s become my sanctuary for eight months of the year; giving it up is a hard ‘no.’ My experience on Facebook Marketplace getting rid of $7000 worth of things, one $10 item at a time off my front porch, has made me realize it’s not easy and I really wouldn’t want to have to have a go at unloading the rest of my stuff in a short period. So no, I was not immediately prepared to get rid of the furnishings.  

But the question of why I can’t give up the basement has been the gut-puncher. Every time the realtor or anyone else has gotten near the topic, I’ve bristled and squirmed and kvetched and made excuses and generally been an intractable bitch, even though it’s space I rarely go to and plan to use only for storage. 

The morning after my dream I went to the basement to do laundry. For the first time in months,  I noticed the eco-friendly cardboard tube containing Jack’s ashes sitting behind the bar. Its ocean sunset graphic is intended to convey a message of everlasting tranquility but instead, this one seemed to pulsate in an urgent kind of way: “look at me, you big dumbie.”  The force of the message took me back to the intense grief I experienced during Jack’s illness and death. I wiped tears from my face with towels as I shoved them into the machine.

I’ve previously shared with you that grief is my roommate, inescapable even when I’d rather live alone. In that moment in my basement though, I realized that my emotional house-mate had, in recent months, quietly moved to the lower level. It’s the space where Jack and I ate pizza and drank red wine on our first evening living together; where we entertained friends, including the night Jack proposed to me at a party using a hollowed out strawberry as a ring; where Jack smoked and Facebooked while I played the piano for him; and where he consented to the injection to end his life peacefully before cancer dragged him brutally to his death. 

I’d conjured a dream of Jack being disloyal to me so I’d see I was clinging to the basement for fear of being disloyal to him.  So obvious yet it had taken me weeks to get there. Once I’d had a chance to process the revelation, I called the realtor to change the listing to rent out the whole basement, preserving only a small portion for my storage.

In the days since, I’ve rethought the rental six or seven more times, pivoting so hard and fast I have motion sickness. I’m currently waiting to see which brand of tenants arrives first: the ones who want it unfurnished or the ones who want it in its current state through Air B&B. Flexibility will surely expand the potential market, hopefully generate more viewings, and, eventually, lead to tenants. With a heart just short of breaking, I have no choice. I am not in a financial position to continue to search for my unicorn European couple. 

Please help me find tenants. Here’s my listing for long term and here’s the AirB&B listing.

(Don’t worry - I’ll take my roomie grief and the ashes to Chandlerville.)

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