Matt Mauser is a performer and lyricist situated in Southern California. In January 2020, he lost his better half, Christina, in a similar helicopter crash that ended the existences of NBA symbol Kobe Bryant and his 13-year-old girl, Gianna. Mauser keeps on performing while at the same time bringing up his three kids, Penny, 13, Tom, 11, and Ivy, 5, and he has dispatched The Christina Mauser Foundation, which supports single parents, ladies and young ladies in games through grants and other monetary guide. Here, he ponders his relationship with Christina and how he has adapted to the overwhelming misfortune.
It just took one date to acknowledge Christina was uncommon and somebody I needed in my life for eternity.
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It was after a Sunday early night bar execution at a Huntington Beach watering opening when Christina approached me as I was separating speaker links and tasting down the last swallows of a Coors Light.
“Are you going to sing a unique melody?” she inquired.
Dazed that a lady as delightful as she would request to hear a tune that I had written, I asked her how she even realized we had unique tunes. With a broke grin that uncovered her splendidly white teeth, which stood out from her lovely olive skin, she answered, “We’ve talked a couple of times, and you sold me a CD last time. I love your tune ‘Still,’ and you should play it.”
Indeed, there it was. She upheld my music, the main thing to me by then in my life. Much to my dismay that at that specific second, the wheels were put into action for a fellowship and a relationship loaded up with consolation and backing in seeking after one another’s fantasies.
I disclosed to her I was done and welcomed her to eat something. She clarified that she was with companions and said if her arrangements transformed she would call.
We passed through a Del Taco and stopped before her home, where I played an old CD of unique melodies I had composed (a procedure I had discovered very compelling when pursuing). We later discovered one of my main tunes by the dynamic ’80s pair Hall and Oates. A melody called “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do).” I disclosed to her that Michael Jackson had taken the bass line from that tune for his raving success “Billie Jean.” I at that point began to beat confine the routine my seat.
Christina must’ve thought I was absurd, and she began giggling wildly. It was the first occasion when I’d heard her chuckle. It was the best, generally true, genuine presentation of bliss I had ever experienced. It was an ensemble. I began to look all starry eyed at her at that point.
In November 2004, I requested that Christina wed me. We had just been dating for a very long time, yet in the wake of having met my mother for lunch simply seven days prior, I got some a word of wisdom that solitary a mother could give.
I would not like to be viewed as idiotic in my mother’s eyes, so I proposed when we strolled into a Zales store and advised her to pick one.
She looked at me without flinching and stated, “Would you say you are requesting that I wed you?”
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“All good,” I reacted. We were hitched on May 6, 2005, perhaps the most joyful days of my life. Christina was amazing, staggering … no words can portray how wonderful she was. I was the most fortunate man on earth.
We invited three wonderful kids, fabricated our business, voyaged when we could, rebuilt our home, partaken in the children’s school and sports, trained b-ball at the school where we both worked, facilitated family social affairs, financed and took care of vehicle credits, conveyed suppers to neighbors out of luck, lost loved ones to malignancy, read books on what’s in store when you’re expecting, kept awake until late watching repulsive unscripted television shows, shared a lager or two in the wake of a difficult day and discussed what’s to come. All the things you do with your accomplice, the one individual on the planet you love. We did the entirety of that together. We were a family. We were closest companions.
In the year since Christina’s passing, I’ve encountered the haziest days of my life. The haze that had an influence in her passing lifted soon thereafter, yet the haze of losing my perfect partner stayed in my heart.
I’ve figured out how to move through the haze.
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Like driving on a mountain street, I can see the white line of the parkway beneath me. I follow that line with the desire for some time or another moving sufficiently high to transcend the overcast cover. I follow that line with the desire for watching the dawn into the great beyond and peering down to see the street underneath. A street filled with potholes, risks and clasp turns.
Regardless, it’s the street I have voyaged, the street that got me through the mist.
Also, when I overcome it, I will pull off, accept a full breath as I take a taste of espresso, look to the sky and converse with my better half. I trust she is pleased with me. I figure she will be.