I’ve said before that my life is like two different books. One is finished while the other is still being written.
Normally the first book “sits on the shelf” because I don’t want to dwell on it too much, or make my wife compete with a ghost.
Two days a year, I metaphorically pull book 1 off of the shelf and remember. The two days I chose seem weird, but they are the ones I chose.
I could have chosen many days; the day we met, any of a huge number of things we did together, meeting her parents, meeting my parents, me asking THE question, her saying YES, our drive across country to meet our extended families, the day of the phone call that brought me the news that cancer was attacking her, the day she died.
But I chose two other days. October 31 and May 26.
October 31, 1983 was the day her doctor recommended a “new” program called hospice. My mom was a nurse practitioner and I knew about hospice already. I just sat there, frozen and barely breathing, knowing that our dreams would never be.
May 26, 1984, was the day we planned for our wedding. Our wedding was going to be on the beach at sunset and attended by a dozen or so friends and family. That time and place was chosen because she loved the beach and loved watching the sparkles from the setting sun “dance on the water”. The day was chosen because it was a holiday weekend.
May 26, 1984, when the sparkles from the setting sun were dancing on the water, I scattered her ashes in the surf.