I have been told, on multiple occasions, that things get better at the two year mark after losing a spouse. Really? Because I am headed that direction. It’s getting to that time of year where the ugly memories start coming back every time time the calendar flips a page. So what is the significance of today? Why will July 27 be embedded into my memory when I can’t even remember to call in a prescription refill? Because, two years ago tonight, I said yes to my husband for the very last time. I blogged about it last year. It’s probably one of my best posts ever. I know I have a couple of new readers but it’s mostly just me so I won’t cut and paste.
I am going to maintain that one of the reasons that I got married was so that I could get out of the dating pool. I have a strong dislike for the act of dating. I did go on a date. One. Date. And it was a fail, by all accounts. The date wasn’t. It was actually okay and kind of fun. But… I wasn’t ready. And he? Clearly was. Ready for everything.
Also, I will officially say that this is the longest, ahem, dry spell in my adult life. You know, since that fateful day in November of 1993. Part of me doesn’t care (and that would be the heavily medicated part) and another, smaller part, really is too tired to care. And then I start to care for a while, a little too much. Then comes the self-depreciating comment or two. And the cycle starts all over again.
Somebody used to call me beautiful.
Somebody used to care what underwear I wore on a given day.
Somebody used to rub my back, my legs, my hair.
Somebody used to watch me sleep.
Somebody used to tell me to go to bed once the news was done, with a twinkle and a wink.
Somebody used to jump in the shower with me at random.
Somebody used to hold my hand at the movies.
Somebody used to love me.
Somebody used to be my whole life.
Somebody sleeps alone.
Somebody hears good news and has nobody to share it with.
Somebody does all the chores and pays all the bills.
Somebody is counting out two years.
Somebody is drying the tears of frightened children.
Somebody makes supper when nobody is eating.
Somebody dreams of slow dances and pre-dawn murmurs; plans made in the purple and blue lights of night.
Somebody is trying to move on.
Wanting to run.
Wanting to cling.
Wanting to sleep.
Wanting to wake from what used to be a nightmare and now is unending, unsettling.
Somebody reaches out.