I Remember

There are a lot of things I remember. Some are easier to recall than others. Sometimes the memories are overwhelming, like a tidal wave. At other times, they're wisps of cobweb that I have to move very gently to get ahold of. Sometimes they bring the comfort of the sun coming out on a cold, winter's day. Sometimes they leave me weary and drained, like realizing at the end of a busy, stressful weekend that the sink is still full of dishes that need to be washed and there are no clean socks to wear to work the next day.

• I remember going for walks in the park or in the neighborhoods where we lived, holding hands.
• I remember talking about books and movies we both loved, comparing favorite characters or elements, and wondering how we'd cast the movie version of them.
• I remember how surprised and grateful she was the first night she got sick after we were together and I went to the store to get things like juice and crackers before coming back to her apartment to make sure she'd be OK for the night.
• I remember trips to the mountains in the fall to see the leaves changing color.
• I remember holding hands across restaurant tables on Saturday mornings when we went out for “us-time.” And the waiter who was surprised when he asked to hear we'd been together for a couple of years; from how we acted, he figured we were still in the infatuation of the first few months.
• I remember how my guts were tied in knots when we were exchanging vows in front of friends and family.
• I remember the deep, abiding sense of comfort and peace holding her as we drifted off to sleep.
• I remember how grateful she was that I showed up for her graduation, as no-one had done that for any of her previous accomplishments.
• I remember nursing a screaming ball of fuzz that turned out to be a still-blind kitten we found in our back yard, and marveling at getting to watch her grow and develop.
• I remember sitting on the couch together, my arm around her shoulders, her head leaning against me, watching favorite movies and shows. And times she'd let me lay my lap in her head when I was so tired I wasn't sure I could stay sitting upright.
• I remember working together on the staves/walking sticks we made for our wedding, and holding those same staves when we renewed our vows on our 10-year anniversary.
• I remember the nights spent at coffee shops playing cribbage or backgammon, and both of us getting more excited about good play or unexpected events than caring who won or not.
• I remember the Sunday mornings we'd spend at the laundromat, talking about nothing and anything while we waited and making a good team when it was time to work.
• I remember blushing beet red and not being able to stop laughing the time we were looking at tools in Sears, when she picked up a stud finder, pointed it at me, and went “Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!”
• I remember loving coming up with puns to make her laugh, and even better when I could slip them into conversation without her realizing what I was doing. It got harder and harder over the years, but was always worth the effort.
• I remember times of touching and caressing and nuzzling and skin, learning how to please and satisfy each other.
• I remember waking up before her and just looking at her, and loving her smile when she'd wake up and see me there.
• I remember how lonely it felt on the mornings when I'd wake up and she wasn't there, because her anxiety wouldn't let her fall or stay asleep next to me.
• I remember the hollow loneliness of knowing she was only down the hall in another room, but wanted nothing to do with me. I remember the night after night of hoping she might come to spend some time with me, and the painful disappointment when I'd realize it'd gotten late, and she'd gone to sleep...and she wasn't coming.
• I remember the frustration when I'd try to talk to her about things that concerned me about us, only to be met with a sullen “Sorry” followed by silence.
• I remember the guilt when her episodes of screaming and pounding on things would get to me so much that I'd speak to her in anger. I never yelled. I never cursed. I never called her names. I never laid a hand on her, But I felt so guilty for being mad at her all the same.
• I remember the numb shock that dropped on me when the police told me they'd found her body in a nearby hotel.

I remember...