June 15, 1985

I’m off on a completely unrelated tangent today.

When I was younger, I can remember my grandmother counting off the years of each wedding anniversary. My grandfather had been gone since I was in elementary school; I clearly recall saying to myself, in thoughtless teenage conceit, “you haven’t really been married all those years…!” Thank God I never, ever said that out loud.

I was so wrong. 

Today is my own wedding anniversary. Like my grandmother, I still count the years. What I did not understand as a teenager is that marking joyous events in your life will continue to bring joy, even when tinged by sadness. My husband’s passing over seven years ago does not change the fact of our marriage nor the myriad reasons to acknowledge and celebrate a wonderful day. In bereavement class I was told that with the death of a spouse, a marriage does not end – it changes. I know this to be true for me. Craig is still intimately entwined in the details of my daily existence; I believe this will always be true.

Our wedding twenty-nine years ago fell on the day before Fathers’ Day. My dad never grumbled that we had stolen his thunder. Rather, he thought it the best present ever. The two anniversaries – Fathers’ Day and our wedding, continue to coincide, a mix of sweet and sad now that both Craig and my father are absent.

I’ve lost track of my grandmother’s tally – I wonder how many years she’d have been married now? Today, Gramma, I’ve been married twenty-nine years!

Happy Anniversary. Happy Fathers’ Day.

Coming down the aisle with Dad

Craig and me and the Springbank Snow Countess

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