Slices of Life: Anniversary thoughts -- part one
"I miss holding your hand. I miss telling you how to drive. I miss you bringing me coffee in the morning," writes Jill Pertler.
This week would have been 35 years for us. I thought we had 50 in the bag, but it wasn’t to be.
The day still holds meaning for me. I suppose it always will. I hope so. So, I pay homage — alone.
I miss dancing in the kitchen.
I miss having someone to stand next to me in family photos. I miss you driving the boat and being our captain. I miss your catch phrases, like “Quite certainly this is the worst movie I’ve ever seen,” said one minute into any movie that didn’t immediately catch your attention.
I miss holding your hand. I miss telling you how to drive. I miss you bringing me coffee in the morning. I miss you calling me a squirrel, in reference to my darting from one task to another — in other words, my version of multitasking.
I miss your overwhelming knowledge about directions and cars and plumbing and life and all the things I didn’t know. I miss not having to worry about those things because you always had my back. I miss our little fights. Heck, I miss our big fights. I miss waking up next to you. I miss taking you — taking us — for granted. I miss your voice and your scent and your laughter.
I miss you.
But, all around me, you are there.
When I smell the morning coffee, I think of you.
When I taste the salsa we used to make together, I think of you.
When the birds’ songs wake me in the morning, I think of you.
When the sunlight warms my skin, I think of you.
When I look at the moon or the stars, I think of you and know we still share the same sky.
You are in the wind, the water, the earth and in the everything all around me, all the time — if I pay attention.
I know that. Thank you.
I’m doing my very best to pay attention.
When clouds float overhead, I think of you.
When the lake is like glass, I think of you.
When falling leaves dance in the air, I think of you.
When I look in the mirror, I think of you.
When I open my eyes each morning, I think of you.
Your chair sits empty, but you are with me still.
I miss our walks. I miss driving across the country as your map-reader and co-pilot. I miss you questioning Siri every mile of the way. I miss eating with you, sharing secrets with you, raising our children with you and being bored with you. I miss our vacations and our everyday fun. I miss your texts and knowing you’d answer anytime I’d call. I miss listening to you, talking to you, lying next to you and making the bed together each morning. I miss your blue eyes and beautiful smile. I miss complaining about watching the NASA channel, but now know you are finally flying for real. I miss our beginning, our middle and our end. I miss being your squirrel.
I miss dancing with you, especially in the kitchen.
When I sleep, I dream of you.
When I see our kids, I see you.
When I smile, you are in my joy.
When I breathe, I breathe for you.
My heart beats for you. I love you. Still. Always. See you soon.
Jill Pertler is an award-winning syndicated columnist, published playwright and author. Don’t miss a slice; follow the Slices of Life page on Facebook.