Editor’s Note: Today’s piece by SeattlePolyChick originally published Aug. 5; yet somehow for me it resonates with the symbolic end of summer occurring this weekend in the U.S. Her posts appear on her own blog, plus over at lifeontheswingset.com. — Amanda
By SeattlePolyChick
I have an anniversary date coming up and I’m deciding to do things a little differently. August 10th is the day Hubby and I married, and the day my father died (not in the same year). Hubby and I used to celebrate both the day we met (July 17th) and our wedding anniversary. My dad dying that day made it a little bittersweet.
Last year Hubby and I talked for a long time, crying a little, but not really getting angry, just talking. He’d asked the month before for a divorce and it was just us talking as people, which was rare those days with all the hurt and anger and such.
We got off the phone and I wrote about all the things we’d talked about. I wanted to remember.
I cried afterward for my dad and my marriage and then pulled myself together, but it was a hard day. I didn’t want to spend the whole day broken. I pulled out things that belonged to my father and looked at pictures of him, but I hadn’t been ready to do that with Hubby’s stuff. I did that later.
The weirdest part was that I kept thinking about Hubby and hoping he was okay. It hurt that he was hurting and I couldn’t make it better. After everything that was the hardest part.
I just saw on my calendar this date approaching and I’m thinking I’ll do it differently this year. I might have needed to process all that hurt and pain and anger and fear last year, and that had made my father’s death fresher too, thinking how disappointed he’d be. But I’m not there a year later, kind of biding time in a basement and having no idea what to do with myself. My life has moved on and I’m happy. Hubby is happy. I think my daughters are happy. And I just don’t feel the need to wallow or cry or rue the day. I wanna take it back.
I’m going to celebrate and remember the good stuff. I’m going to watch one of the hundreds of movies Hubby and I liked and eat a giant bowl of popcorn for him and enjoy his old drink at Starbucks, the place we met and spent so much happy time. I’m going to work “holy shnikeys” and “mother bitch” into a conversation somewhere and I’m going to smile if I see a man with knock knees. I’ll think of our words “honey bunny” and “punkin” lightly. I might play cribbage if I can find anyone who knows how.