The Story of Wes (Part 3).

Not only were my mom and I incredibly close, which allowed me to know and understand her on an intimate level, but we had had conversations about death and wishes – both hers and mine. We both shared the same fear – we didn’t want to be a burden upon our death. “Whatever is cheapest” was our shared motto.

I knew she didn’t want a burial. I knew she wanted her body donated to Wright State University, if possible. I knew important documents were in her lockbox at work. I knew funds would be limited, but that she wanted them divided evenly between her three children.

Nobody can prepare you for the litany of questions a funeral director asks you.

Matt and I did the best we could, but there were questions that left us stumped. I felt ridiculous each time I looked over at Wes for guidance – someone who had known my mother for six months versus my 32 years, someone who I had never even met.

I would meagerly ask, “Do you know, Wes?”

And he did. He knew about her song preferences, her deepest desires, the scars on her body.

Without context, if I were the funeral director, I would have believed that Wes and my mom had shared 40 years of marriage together. I would have believed that he was our long-time, beloved stepdad. There would have been no indication to me that these people were all meeting for the first time under devastating circumstances.

It reminded me of something I had said to my dad a while back. I told him over the phone, “Brad knows me better after nine months than Tyler did after nine years.”

I truly meant that. I am not romanticizing my relationship with Brad or revising my relationship with Tyler. Tyler wasn’t willing or interested – or perhaps, able – to understand me on a soul level. I never felt seen, not truly, by him. In hindsight, he feels like a stranger to me.

I know full-heartedly that my mother felt more seen by Wes in six months than she did by my father in 17 years of marriage. I don’t believe in the concept of “soulmates,” but I do believe in soul-level connections, both platonic and romantic. And once you have one, it’s undeniable. There is no prerequisite for it, especially not the length of time it takes to develop.

Despite their “short” time together, Mom and Wes spent hours and hours talking to each other on the phone every night. One time, I asked her if they ever ran out of things to talk about, and she giddily said, “Of course not!”

For the few weeks that Wes lived with my mom, they didn’t even have a TV. They spent their evenings conversing about everything under the sun, listening to music, and dancing.

I later learned that the night before she died, she asked Wes if they could just “sit on the couch together and talk.” Mom kept telling me with such lightness in her voice, “I don’t even want to get a TV!”

I never had the opportunity to see my mom and Wes together, in the same room. That was taken from me, and for that, I am angry. But to witness the palpable love Wes holds for my mother, even in the face of death, is a gift, and I am eternally grateful.

She waited 65 years, but her final months were filled with more love than she knew possible. If I had the opportunity to talk to her just one more time, I know with every fiber of my being, she’d do it all over again. She’d wait 65 more years if the outcome promised six more months of loving Wes, of being loved by him.  

As I said in her eulogy, she and Wes experienced a small infinity within the numbered days.

Mom constantly told me how much Wes reminded her of Brad. She would say things like, “They are both small statured,” or, “They are both so philosophical.” What I think she was really saying was, “Wes sees my soul the same way Brad sees yours.”