Still falling, now and forever
Today should be a day of joy. And it is. A bit sad, too.
It was six years ago that my wife first met me for coffee.
So simple a meeting; she walked into Starbucks wearing a black blouse and black slacks, her hair naturally curly and beautiful. Her skin silky and warm.
It was just a meeting for coffee, suggested by office matchmakers and confirmed by me through email (the chickenshit I was, I couldn’t walk to her desk and actually ask her).
We ended up talking for nearly 31/2 hours. We joked in the parking lot that we should have just continued at lunch; I was game, and so was she. We were awkward and cute and we parted ways.
And began talking on the phone every spare moment.
Then I started going over to her townhouse, after he daughter went to sleep, and never staying until morning (that would not be proper).
It would be almost three weeks before we had our first “official” date.
I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas as her guest at her grandparents’ house.
What started at coffee six years ago turned into a love affair.
I am apart from her today.
I miss her terribly.
I miss the joy of looking at her face, her hazel eyes. I miss burying my face into the mass of those blond curls, the smell of vanilla or coconut that warms me.
As much as it pains me to be apart, we are apart. In more ways than distance.
See, I was able to only give her 10 months of a fairy tale romance before life intervened.
Life, well, it came down hard.
And as much as we were strong individuals who came together to form this really perfect couple, we began to lose ourselves in the grind. Too much happened way to fast, and it got even worse 11 months ago when I lost my mom to cancer.
I suffered in silence a loss she could not comprehend.
And I lashed out when she didn’t understand. I became hyper-critical and hyper-controlling of things that I thought I could control.
When only I needed her shoulder to cry on.
He touch to comfort me.
Her ear to confide in.
I was arrogant; I’m Thom G. and I am in control of my emotions.
I needed serious help.
And I sought help.
Maybe six months too late.
But here I am, on the sixth anniversary of that day when my life changed forever. That day when I met the love of my life, the woman I consider to be my soulmate in this life. The person I know I can love and trust with my wrecked heart.
I miss her terribly.
And, in that, there is joy and there is sorrow. Knowing that she’s in my world.
Just not as close as I’d like her to be.
Not nearly that close.
But it is a test for us, to see if those two strong individuals still have what it takes to come together and form that perfect couple. Two people united in so much trust and passion as to be OK alone – and formidable together.
Our first Christmas together, six years ago, she gave us a journal to pass back and forth to chronicle this love affair. It was a beautiful idea, and there would be days when I would find the journal on my pillow, after we had grown comfortable and exchanged keys (I nearly fumbled the first time I told her I loved her; we were having lunch at my house, and I longed to tell her how I felt. I, instead, told her how much I liked her. We started to walk out to our cars, when in the garage I said, “You know when I said I really liked you? Well I really love you.” Amid the cobwebs and smell of dust and oil, she kissed me and told me she loved me, too).
The last entry I made was the night before we wed; her last entry was the night of our honeymoon.
Just before I left, I re-read every journal entry of our budding love affair, every card we’d ever sent to one another. It filled me with joy.
I left her a very long journal entry and gave it to her.
I took cards with me, to write down, in our absence from each other, how my heart and soul aches to be with her.
“Now and forever.”
That’s how I sign all my cards, for six years now.
She returns cards with “Still Falling.”
I sure hope so.
I love this woman with every atom in my being.
Today is a great day, but a bit sad, too.
Today marks the sixth anniversary of my finding the love of my life. I miss her.
And I’m still falling for her.
It was six years ago that my wife first met me for coffee.
So simple a meeting; she walked into Starbucks wearing a black blouse and black slacks, her hair naturally curly and beautiful. Her skin silky and warm.
It was just a meeting for coffee, suggested by office matchmakers and confirmed by me through email (the chickenshit I was, I couldn’t walk to her desk and actually ask her).
We ended up talking for nearly 31/2 hours. We joked in the parking lot that we should have just continued at lunch; I was game, and so was she. We were awkward and cute and we parted ways.
And began talking on the phone every spare moment.
Then I started going over to her townhouse, after he daughter went to sleep, and never staying until morning (that would not be proper).
It would be almost three weeks before we had our first “official” date.
I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas as her guest at her grandparents’ house.
What started at coffee six years ago turned into a love affair.
I am apart from her today.
I miss her terribly.
I miss the joy of looking at her face, her hazel eyes. I miss burying my face into the mass of those blond curls, the smell of vanilla or coconut that warms me.
As much as it pains me to be apart, we are apart. In more ways than distance.
See, I was able to only give her 10 months of a fairy tale romance before life intervened.
Life, well, it came down hard.
And as much as we were strong individuals who came together to form this really perfect couple, we began to lose ourselves in the grind. Too much happened way to fast, and it got even worse 11 months ago when I lost my mom to cancer.
I suffered in silence a loss she could not comprehend.
And I lashed out when she didn’t understand. I became hyper-critical and hyper-controlling of things that I thought I could control.
When only I needed her shoulder to cry on.
He touch to comfort me.
Her ear to confide in.
I was arrogant; I’m Thom G. and I am in control of my emotions.
I needed serious help.
And I sought help.
Maybe six months too late.
But here I am, on the sixth anniversary of that day when my life changed forever. That day when I met the love of my life, the woman I consider to be my soulmate in this life. The person I know I can love and trust with my wrecked heart.
I miss her terribly.
And, in that, there is joy and there is sorrow. Knowing that she’s in my world.
Just not as close as I’d like her to be.
Not nearly that close.
But it is a test for us, to see if those two strong individuals still have what it takes to come together and form that perfect couple. Two people united in so much trust and passion as to be OK alone – and formidable together.
Our first Christmas together, six years ago, she gave us a journal to pass back and forth to chronicle this love affair. It was a beautiful idea, and there would be days when I would find the journal on my pillow, after we had grown comfortable and exchanged keys (I nearly fumbled the first time I told her I loved her; we were having lunch at my house, and I longed to tell her how I felt. I, instead, told her how much I liked her. We started to walk out to our cars, when in the garage I said, “You know when I said I really liked you? Well I really love you.” Amid the cobwebs and smell of dust and oil, she kissed me and told me she loved me, too).
The last entry I made was the night before we wed; her last entry was the night of our honeymoon.
Just before I left, I re-read every journal entry of our budding love affair, every card we’d ever sent to one another. It filled me with joy.
I left her a very long journal entry and gave it to her.
I took cards with me, to write down, in our absence from each other, how my heart and soul aches to be with her.
“Now and forever.”
That’s how I sign all my cards, for six years now.
She returns cards with “Still Falling.”
I sure hope so.
I love this woman with every atom in my being.
Today is a great day, but a bit sad, too.
Today marks the sixth anniversary of my finding the love of my life. I miss her.
And I’m still falling for her.
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