A couple of months before Trey died, I bought new toilet seats for all three bathrooms in our house. I placed a box containing a new seat in each of the bathrooms, where we were sure to trip on them and fight with them every time we opened the bathroom doors.
I asked my husband to take care of changing them out. Weeks went by with no action on the matter and company was coming, so I proceeded to change out the seat in the guest bath. I’m no helpless female — I can change a toilet seat, after all.
“Did you change the toilet seats?”
“Just the one.”
“Babe, I’m supposed to do that. I’ll do the others. You don’t have to fuck around with changing out toilet seats. Don’t change the other two, all right? Let me.”
Another couple of weeks passed with plenty of stubbed toes and curses from the well-placed boxes. No action on the matter was taken.
Then he died. Without ever changing out the toilet seats.
After Trey’s death, I continued to leave those two toilet seats in their boxes, instrusively located on the bathroom floors. Company came, and more company, and family and friends came for the funeral, stayed in my home and used the bathrooms. Still the boxes with the new seats remained sealed, stubbing toes and eliciting curses.
He had told me to wait for him. He told me he would do it. I was still waiting for him. I was waiting. To let him do it. Like he said.
This week, it became too much of a pain in the butt. Literally. The seat in the master bath was cracked, and it pinched my butt cheek every time I used it. So I changed out the seats. Now we have new seats on the toilets.
The world didn’t end. I didn’t even cry.
It’s just one of many items on his honey-do list that I will now be handling.