In May of this year we hit the point I had waited for. You had become a part of my life longer than I was without you. The irony is, we were hundreds of miles apart, separated by hours and pain and distances we had no way to bridge. At some point in time, in mid May, the clock ticked over and the time you had been a part of me longer than you had been apart from me began without you.
Severing myself from you has been painful beyond what i could have imagined. Untangling myself feels impossible sometimes. I keep pulling at tendrils and they snap off or it feels like I’ll never find the end. There are places I know that will require me to dig and dig and dig. There are places where you have dug in where I will never reach the bottom. You have permeated every bit of me and I find you in unexpected places, memories tucked deep, a smell or a sound or a glint of light.
I have written posts for you on our anniversary for many years. This one is likely to be my last. This year is the last year I can call you my husband. This year is the last year I will mark the time. I won’t get to say we made it 22 years or 25 or 50 or forever. This is the end. In a year of bittersweet and painful firsts, this is another last. Maybe not the hardest last, but an awful one.
For me there was never a doubt. For me I always believed that we would be forever. My vision of us was unwavering. I believed, naively, that if I just loved you harder, we could get over this hump and find the happy years that I never stopped believing were possible.
And now I’m left with the task of finding a way to unlove the person whom I have loved the most.
Earlier this year, there was speculation of the possibility of a parallel universe that runs alongside us and moves backwards as we move forward and that means that, maybe, some place, somewhere, you fall back in love with me. The pain and sorrow slowly fade away. We grow young and exuberant together, even if we didn’t get to grow old together. We get to march together, hand in hand, through every good day. We end at the beginning, on the highest of high notes. The eyes I watched pull away from me in Kalamazoo on that first weekend, come towards me again. I fall asleep in your arms for the last first time.
Every moment and memory waiting there for us to walk through again. Instead of kissing you goodbye in January, someplace else I am kissing you hello. Instead of our last family trip to the beach a year ago, we are having our first. Instead of the last night I held your hand in the car in the dark, it’s the first time.
Maybe, in some other place and in some other time we are infinite.