Kathryn L Kaplan

One part of our backyard in Mexico was so overgrown that only when we started hacking branches and brambles did we spot an old, discarded water tank by the fence that ended our property. Not familiar with this type of utility, we asked our landlord if he could pick it up and discard it. Always one to avoid extra work or expense, he of course said no.

Patrick, my ever-creative husband, said, “It looks like a yellow submarine—let’s paint it.” So we dragged the thing to an open lawn area by the house, cleaned it up, and made a plan. Using photos we found online, we sketched the Beatles’ yellow submarine on one side. Then we bought yellow, red, black, and light blue paint. Day after day we worked, reveling in having time to do such a frivolous project in contrast to consulting remotely with clients in New York City.

While Patrick took the lead, he left me to paint the Fab Four looking out of the four portholes. I was so relieved when he finally said, “Perfect.” Then he went back for some real work leaving me to sketch and paint the Octopus’s Garden on the other side. When he returned, he added a turtle, a few more fish, and hugged me proclaiming, “Done!”

Then he got cancer and died. But before his last month he told the gardeners to make a circular path that I could walk when it was too hard for me to walk to town. With my diminishing eyesight, I began a morning ritual with my white kitty to do meditation in motion, connecting to Patrick and walking through my grief. My first glance was always the grounded octopus (me), the two sea horses who mate for life (our undying relationship), and the happy bubbles from the flat fish, which always elevated my spirits. As I’d round the bend towards the yellow submarine, I’d look at the portholes of John, Paul, George, and Ringo and nod saying, “Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.”

On September 11, 2024, I got the fateful text from my landlord in Spanish. “I’m sorry, but you have to move.” I had two and a half months to find a new home. What a shock. He had promised I could stay forever! But there’s no such thing. I’m grateful to have had seven years here, four with Patrick and three to move through grief and create a new life.

I’m getting pushed out of the nest and have to believe it is to nudge me toward the next seven-year phase. Every time I moved from DC to New York, apartment to apartment, Patrick helped me—cleaning to perfection, hanging pictures, picking out furniture, and making a house a home. This time, I’ll put together a team to assist me, but it’s not the same.

The only happy thought is that I found a new home for our yellow submarine. I had thought I’d be giving it to my friend Ana, who has a home in the country, but after viewing sixteen houses over four weeks, I found the one. It’s close by and not only has room for our signature project, but also a fenced yard for my kitty. Patrick would be proud and I’m thrilled. Full speed ahead!