Yesterday would have been my 36th wedding anniversary. However, I'm posting today because the husband always joked that if we'd married in a leap year, he'd only have to remember every four years.
He had a quirky sense of humor. I always laughed at the comment. But in hindsight and how we ended, I wonder if there was an underlying truth in the statement.
Perhaps Marriage wasn't what he really wanted. But because we'd been together for seven years, it just happened, similar to the way we got engaged. It just happened!
February 28, 1988
Having been separated for a dozen years, living 3,000 miles apart, his passing in 2020 didn't have a devastating effect on my life.
Still, there was sadness for the man I'd shared 27 years with—7 dating, 20 married—and with whom I had three magnificent sons.
And now it's still strange to bear the title widow. There's no opportunity for second chances. Or to make amends. Or start over. Did I want that? Honestly no. Logically, I knew it would never happen. Emotionally, I suppose I thought by way of some grand gesture on his part, it might!
As I look back on that day when I was a young bride. Filled with romance and hope for the future, I have some regrets; it takes two to destroy a relationship.
There were several good years. Due to fate over which we had no control, several bad.
I'm grateful for the memories and the lessons learned. And I choose to dwell on the positive, that being our sons, who are my world.
If not for our union, they wouldn't exist. Because of that, I'd marry him again a million times.
John, I hope you're resting easy; puffing your pipe and sipping a glass of Grand Marnier. I hope you have good memories. I hope you know I tried. I think we both did, but for us, forever wasn't meant to be.
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