The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  I’m ushered towards a photographer with a large tarp behind him, asking me to pose in a victory stance, tears still rolling down my face. Everything is a blur, and I’m escorted next to the press. Folks I recognize, folks I don’t, all congratulating me. Cameras flash, and more microphones in my face, asking me to explain the miracle that just occurred. I relish in the moment, while simultaneously wanting nothing more than to get back to my locker room and digest the act in solitude.

  I make my way back to the room I warmed up in, and sit with my coaches, reliving the moment several times over. Finally, I head to the showers. I lean my head against the tile wall, and enjoy the silence and seclusion. I decide it is indeed the same locker room and shower as it had been nearly two years ago. Life is much different now though.

  I wash off my sweat, and the sweat of my opponent. Down the drain it goes. With it, the regrets and tears amassed over a tumultuous 612 days. I’m not rid of it all yet, but it’s a start. I cry more, realizing that it is all finally over.

  Epilogue

  “Walk with the dreamers, the believers, the courageous, the cheerful, the planners, the doers, the successful people with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the ground. Let their spirit ignite a fire within you to leave this world better than when you found it.”

  -Wilfred Peterson

  Love, Isabel once told me, while in a particularly cerebral mood, is all the little memories we share with someone that no one else has. Love doesn’t always have to be romantic, she said. It could be with a friend, or a pet, and by her standards, love was everywhere. Some of my favorite memories of her were when she was in these moods, when she was feeling talkative about abstract ideas and beliefs, being spiritual.

  I suggested that maybe love was exclusive to only good memories, to which she asked who in my life did I love that I had only good memories with. Bad times add depth and give context to love, she explained, in more words than that. She’d seen family members suffer from Alzheimer’s, and they forget who they loved, she said, because they’d lost their memories of that person.

  It was one of the more profound things she ever told me, that memories and love are one and the same. It was a mentality I ended up adopting. She was right, after all. The interactions among one another are what we love most, and remember.

  I’d already suspected in my mind that love was the meaning of life. All the weddings, the arts, the sciences, the religions and drugs, those are the things the human experience is made of, but love will always be king.

  History is littered with remarkable folks that people feel the need to tell the world about; through books, poems, songs, and other arts. I’ve always known that Isabel was one of these, one that could not be left unremembered. At the end of the day, we are vessels, I think, for whatever emotions it is we’re carrying. Isabel, at her best, was a vessel for pure bliss, with an infectious smile that would make you want to go conquer the whole world. She was a supernova, and this was my attempt at crystallizing her star, and what it was like to be next to her when it burnt out. After she died, many told me that she would live on through me. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I do now.

  Most relationships damaged in the wake of her loss were reconciled. Some were not. Many were reduced, or left out of writing entirely, because this story wasn’t about them. It was about a girl and the things she taught me. It was about her, living after death.

  Time has come and gone since December 6th, 2014. Juice died before the end of the year. I got another dog, one born on the same night. I named him after the doctor that delivered Juice to the other side. I still do that sometimes, actions to remind me of a time that is ever fleeting. My grandmother died days before completing this. I sang at her funeral, tired of speaking at them.

  I got to the top of Maroon Bells as promised, and got the hair out of the drain. I was a groomsman in a Monroe wedding. I rewatched The Fountain, and removed most her clothes from the closet. I fought more, winning, and losing, which is all life is; a series of victories and defeats. It’s chaos, both beautiful and cruel. We must do our best to embrace the beauty when it comes, and take the cruel in stride.

  When I embarked on this years ago, my purpose was not to just tell the story of Isabel, but to include all the things I never got the chance to say to her. These words encompassed only part of her life, but over the course of writing, I inventoried all of mine, to identify the things I learned from her.

  She taught me what it’s like to have someone more important to me than myself. She taught me that success is easier when we believe. She taught me that there are consequences for our actions, every single one of them. Sometimes life lessons are merely consolation prizes, at having to learn things the hard way. If I can bestow that knowledge on at least one person without them having to go through what I went through, then I am satisfied.

  There’s still a piece of me left on I-75, still things I’ll never forgive myself for. There are things one kick cannot atone for, nor a whole book. All the small triumphs, the colossal failures, they all become a part of the equation. I’ve learned to live with them. I push forward, hoping my accomplishments define me more than my character flaws; that if I’m talented enough at things, people will forgive me for my defects.

  I continue my pattern of thinking that began once Isabel died, always looking for my next purpose. Wasted potential is my only fear now. I do better when I’m sharing my stories, when I’m explaining why it is I act the way I do, why I love the things I’ve loved.

  Happiness to me now is attempting to create more than I’ve destroyed. It is a tall order. Teaching, sharing, giving; I try to use anything at my disposal as a way to inject positivity into my life. I realized eventually there’s no removing the darkness. There is only outweighing it.

  I’ve learned to trust the journey, because in the end we have no choice but to. I trust, not because I think things are predetermined, but because I believe in my ability to make the best of them. The world may bring us to our knees, but what matters most is how well we walk through the fire.

  I still don’t fear dying nowadays. Everyone has a birthday and a death day, and it’s the singularity of life that makes it so special. We’re marching towards the end from day one. As we march, ask yourself, if your end were to come today, what seeds did you plant?

  What will you be a vessel for?

  What will your verse be?

  December 6, 1990 – August 30, 2013

  To Gerard, for his faith and encouragement. To Sophia, for her patience. To Taylor, Hunter, Chad, and everyone else not mentioned. To those who were included, that understood the need to paint the picture. To the readers who've followed along, and the fans who have always supported me. Thank you all.

  Copyright 2016 Josh Samman