There was a guy, once upon a time, who thought I was pretty – more than that, he made me believe that I was. He saw something in me that gave both of us confidence. I spent forty years with that guy. Forty years – the lifetime of our marriage.
Over the years we did it all; loved, laughed, made some babies, fought, grieved and worked things out; we made a life together. You grow comfortable in a relationship over time, maybe even complacent, and start to live in the realm of assumptions. You assume his hand will be there when you reach out to hold it, you take for granted you will have time to sulk before you compromise. You grow more confident in tomorrows as the yesterdays accumulate.
But here’s the thing – tomorrow is not a guarantee, it isn’t a promise. One day we will all run out of tomorrows and be left with only the yesterdays. That’s where I am right now, alone with my yesterdays and my memories. I’m thankful for those memories — I have favorites I revisit on the regular and others that make me squirm every time I think of them.
I’ve been trying to organize my memories into neat little files. It’s proving an impossible task. Is the memory of a gigantic fight that was resolved with the sweetest reconciliation a happy memory or sad one, good or bad? It depends, sometimes I focus on the fight, other times the reconciliation. I choose. I relive the memory and file it in which ever folder is open at the time.
My filing system doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but me – I am the sole proprietor of my stores. The system has one purpose, to help me remember. Sometimes I worry I’ve misplaced a memory, filed it in the wrong spot — that I’ve forgotten. I can’t afford to do that. I can’t make new memories with that guy, I have to look after the ones I’ve got – I have to keep them safe and vivid and easily accessible. I want to remember all of them, all the goods and all the bads, the whole perfectly imperfect thing – I need to remember.
Emotional archives are complicated, they aren’t stats we can average. The archives are fluid and move like waves at the whim of our state of mind. We call forth memories that reinforce our mood at the moment. The archives validate our thoughts and answer our questions. Was my marriage a good one? Most of the time. Was it strong? Yes – it stood the test of time. Was it perfect? Nope, but it was pretty damned close. Am I proud of it? Absolutely. Would I do it all again? In a heartbeat.
The archives are anything but tidy, they are cluttered with memories of every shape and size and every one of those memories is as important as the other. Good or bad those memories add up to the story of us. In the archives is where he lives now – there, and in my heart.