We went to the mountain to reminisce and remember – it seemed like a good place to mark the anniversary of the worst day ever. The sky was crayola blue – the shade children choose to color perfection around cartoon clouds – and the snow outlined evergreens excited about the season.
As I gave thanks for the glory of a beauty day the kids reminded me that their Dad always told them there were no bad days on the mountain, just bad attitudes and inappropriate dress. We were in the right place to remember….
I have no words for the emotions this day has conjured but I’m glad it was sunny. This year has been long and flown by – I can’t believe it’s over. I’m not looking forward to a year of ‘seconds ‘ but I’m thankful I’m here to be part of them.
My sentiments in a post I wrote last April hold true today – for lack of fresh inspiration I thought I would repost it below…
A road travelled
We are still marking his passing in weeks but I know soon it will be months, and then… and then years. It’s the prospect of the years that takes my breath away. He will remain sixty-two and I will age without him. He will stay handsome in my mind’s eye and my mirror will reflect an old woman with sad eyes. And the years will pass.
I know my future holds good things too; happiness, laughter, growth and love. But it also holds a hole, an empty chair, a spot reserved for him. And I am lonely just thinking about it. He was supposed to grow old with me. We were supposed to walk hand in hand into a sunset together. We were supposed to share our senior years and learn how to cope with the aches and pains, the challenges and the joys with each other to complain to and to laugh with.
He was the person who could remember my pretty years. He was the guy who could read the map of my face; the laugh lines, the scowls. He knew when to hand me the box of Kleenex. He knew how I ticked. There isn’t time enough left in my life for someone else to learn all of that – not that I’d want anyone else to know those secrets anyway, he was my person.
I was lucky to have shared forty years with the same man. Forty years makes for a lot of memories, a lot of ups and downs, a lot of miles traveled. Forty years is a lifetime. You learn a lot about another person over a lifetime like that, even as they change. There is always a give and take in a marriage. Someone is generally picking up slack in one area or another, but the slack interchanges and so does the person picking it up. Marriage is team work.
I’m going to try to not turn into the old lady who professes to have been married to a saint. But today that’s hard. It seems easy to recall the smiles and to miss the perfect guy who really wasn’t. I have no desire to remember reality right now. The real guy, the one who was sometimes short on patience, sometimes distant, the one who could get my dander up. I want to dwell on perfect memories for the moment. I want to float on that perfection.
My guess is the passage of years will change that. Years will add dimension, perspective and honesty. Even as the weeks begin to slip into months and life develops a new rhythm I can feel a quiet reality slipping into place. No marriage was ever perfect. No two people have ever been completely in sync with each other. No road is straight and smooth and even, but forty years of traveling a road together speaks volumes about the travelers. A road forty years long speaks of commitment and perseverance. And love.