Table of memories: I’m celebrating Michael’s life at a Seacliff picnic table dedicated in his honor

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The fog was more of a drizzle and it was a weekday, so I just assumed the picnic area down at Seacliff State Beach in Aptos would be deserted or at the very least uncrowded. I was almost right.

I headed to the cluster of tables I was targeting and, to my surprise, saw several vehicles parked in the parking lot, despite the cool, damp air. Gulls  dipped and flew over the bay and pelicans dive-bombed into the sea, with their long, pointed beaks snatching fish up in a flash. The water, dark gray and slightly choppy, did not look inviting, at least not to me. 

And yet, there was a party going on. Small children, with their rounded bellies and sand-dusted bodies ran back and forth to the surf’s edge. Adults watched them as they mimicked the warm-blooded vertebrates overhead. 

Joy in action. As it should be. 

In February, when my husband, Michael, died and my world upended, friends got together and purchased a memorial picnic table in his honor. It was apparently an easy process – although no one would let me in on the details or even tell me what it cost – and I was eager to see it when the table finally appeared a few months later. 

The first time I visited Michael’s table, it was spring and there was no one there. It was quiet and peaceful. I spent an hour appreciating having a specific place to go when I wanted to feel close to him. 

Michael loved the water passionately. He was not a surfer; he preferred a boogie board or, even better, body surfing. He loved riding the waves with nothing but a wetsuit between him and the sea. 

He had no fear. He had a group of buddies who called themselves “The Fogbathers” because they all felt the same, and every Sunday morning they would gather at the beach, drink coffee, eat donuts, and venture out. When he returned home to me – who had been enjoying the Sunday paper, feet dry –  he smelled like the sea, briny and salty. His neck, when I kissed it, tasted like the ocean. 

Sometimes we would slip back into bed for a late-morning nap. In days to follow, I would find sand among the cotton sheets. 

Michael never saw the movie “Jaws.” One of our daughter Kira’s regrets after he died was that we didn’t watch it with him in those last few days so he could see why his daughter and his wife weren’t as casual about what may or may not be lurking out in the deep. Given the fast-moving cancer he faced so bravely, the movie might have seemed more absurdly funny than frightening. 

Oh well. As they say, “shoulda woulda coulda.”

I can recall only a few things that scared Michael and they always involved worrying about me, or Kira or our grandson, Dodger. His nighttime bike rides, even in the winter, even when the roads were damp, did not frighten him. Without fail, Tuesday and Thursday nights, his buddies would show up here around 6 p.m., their biking shoes clicking against the kitchen floor. I’d stand at the kitchen window and watch as they headed up and over the hill. 

An hour and half later they would return, sweaty, laughing, their shoes once again clicking against the floor. (Oh how I miss that sound.)

We’d pour gin and tonics, squeeze limes and rub them around the rims of the glasses and they’d retell their adventures. Then, depending on the time of year, they might watch football or basketball or best of all, the Tour de France. 

Only once was anyone injured on one of those rides. It was Michael, compound fracture of the arm, middle of the night surgery, and weeks later he was back on his bike.

This happened for years. I assumed it would keep happening. That nothing would ever change. I mean, isn’t that the way we all are? We assume the status quo will proceed without interruption. That the goodness we have now will be the goodness of tomorrow.

I know now that I ignored the reality of time moving forward. 

Now, I am somewhere else entirely. A widow. This is my life. This will continue to be my life. Forever.

I have not heard the sound of bicycle shoes on my kitchen floor in months. I likely never will again. This still shocks me. Tuesday and Thursday nights are now like any other evening. Quiet. 

Sunday mornings, I still enjoy the newspaper, but no one comes through the door shaking sand off and greeting me with a hug. A kiss. And I can’t remember the last time I had to brush sand from my 800-thread-count cotton sheets. Time has moved forward, just without Michael.

When I discovered the happy gathering at Michael’s table I wasn’t sad that the space was occupied – that I couldn’t sit there alone and think about all I had and all I was missing. I was happy to see a group of people celebrating a birthday and without being aware of it, including my husband in their fun. 

I introduced myself and explained about the table. I pointed out the engraving on one of the cross sections below the tabletop. It reads, “Michael Sternbach, loved by all.” And there is a heart. 

They appreciated knowing it was more than just a picnic table. 

My dining room table is filled with things this week. Tablecloths, photographs, paper plates, napkins, paper cups, vases for sunflowers. Michael’s family is flying in from the East Coast on Thursday. Once again, even his mother, who is about to turn 95, is making the trip.

We have reserved Michael’s table for our own celebration on Saturday. By the time you are reading this it will be over. I hope it will have gone well. I pray I am doing Michael justice. I know there are no words to express how I feel about the man I spent most of my life with. I have had many restless nights trying to imagine how it will go. 

I wish I could hire a skywriter. I wish I could watch as a plane flew overhead filling the horizon with messages of love. Go ahead, I would say. Block out the sun. Tell the world how we miss him. 

Perhaps he would see it. Or at the very least feel what we are feeling down here by the shore.