Mindy,
The anniversary material for thirteen years is lace, so I will weave you a writing.
Jordan and I are getting married! says the annual alert on my calendar, set by you on Google Calendar a little over thirteen years ago. Then a second reminder, added later—Our anniversary—maybe in case I forgot.
So I know what today is but I do also keep forgetting. Even when you wouldn’t expect, like when the pain spikes suddenly and my face is blotched with tears and the breath goes out until I gasp and afterward my heart feels scoured.1 I don’t always assume the sadness is about you anymore.
We’re a dynamic duo, a fiery combo, a double Gemini, well-balanced, and this is the sort of world you were made for, so sometimes I wonder about the waves we could've made and surfed together. That’s all in retrospect, though, after awhile in my own fire that I can’t trade back. The last many years would’ve blazed different alongside you, and I’d like to watch that timeline with you sometime.
The original April 26th couldn’t be perfect, though we got close. You were hours late for photos and I got irritable, and these were survival tactics we used before and would use again. Our souls were merging, so inner battles were expected. Neither of us really knew what we were doing.
In my sleep we aren’t together outside of a hopeful handful of dreams. We are divided in some way, even if you’re near or actually present. I can never tell if we’re divorced or separated, but I know there’s a chasm, a thudding ache of teenage heartbreak, an echo of being cast out of Eden. Maybe these are hints of: a new angle of grief. The second death.
The second death is mentioned in the work of C.S. Lewis and Sheldon Van Auken on their griefs observed, and it’s a concept which is ominous since they wrote of the second death as worse, in many ways, than the first. I mean, whoazers. Worse?! Please, no. Mercy! I know every good story starts with a dash of reluctance, but I don’t want to say goodbye again. Not quite yet.
I gladly paved over reluctance thirteen years ago because I knew I was getting a good deal in regards to soul-sharing. You were reluctant, too, in your lateness and in your vows, which surprised me in their beauty and honesty. My ego was twinged to think of myself as a risk, though you were right. Neither of us really knew what we were doing.
I am grateful for that day, at least in retrospect. Once, I told someone you could’ve been one of the finest women who ever lived. And this seems extravagant to say with you gone so long, yet you were the finest for me, and loved by so many others, also, and I wish I’d said more words like that to you directly rather than all the other foolishness I babbled. What a woman you were! On that day, especially, illuminated and radiant. Who will you be when we cross paths again?
Being married to you was worth every irritation and agonizing wait. Thank you for agreeing to our union and for hosting my favorite party thirteen years ago today. We made the truest decision for our love, and I miss anticipating your arrival, though I suppose I still do. In person, I mean. Our timelines flow on, parted, and this is the river we know.
Or maybe you are out of time, like you hoped, in the itinerary where we’re all resurrected at once, so when you awoke and floated down that Green Corridor, we’d all be there also, to prep for the Feast together. I love looks into that timeline.
I missed you this year, Mindy. Many did. We remember you.
Love,
Jordan
13 is my lucky number. Thanks for doing it proud. As usual, your prose moved me. Happy anniversary to you and your angel bride.
"...sometimes I wonder about the waves we could have made and surfed together."
Another nice line. I'm writing this about 1/4 of a mile from the Providence building where Dr. Mins took care of kids.