Twice per year,
on New Years afternoon and today,
I sit down,
with my wonderful, very very patient, hubby,
make a pot of Typhoo tea,
and we start remembering.
What we have done since January.
The good, the bad, the finished, the undone.
It gives us strength.
The New Years’ is almost always a joyful look at our lives together,
the main events,
what we will change.
And he is patient.
Even though I know, in the back of his math head, the wheels about wasting time and “women’s junk” are spinning,
and in the math survival section of the brain,
just under the surface,
the tiny seed of a theorem is starting to shove it’s new growth into the consciousness.
But he is patient.
And not even in the “artists are the enemy” mode.
I have half an hour.
Today, though, is pure remembrance.
Nine Junes ago my mother was alive.
Ten, my Dad.
Five Junes ago I hadn’t had to put my life on suspense for a while and heal.
We were walking through Hyde park in London.
On a business trip, but with time to visit the Peter Pan.
It was joyful.
And it is today.
Last June I was writing for a consortium,
and feeling out of place there.
Now I am writing a book and a blog at the same time,
and feel free.
July, August, the entire rest of the year we spent cleaning his parents ancestral house each weekend.
Seven huge bags of litter each weekend to be gathered and pulled from the house.
We are tough.
The constant driving back and forth,
constant discussion with cousins,
who don’t want the house themselves,
but can’t believe we are selling.
We are tough.
And in the nights, in the hotel, sitting up in bed, too tired to sleep.
Holding hands as he listens to a book.
We will survive.
This was the year the overwork got to both of us.
Constant letters from family in trouble.
The incredibly joyful news
and our prayers of thanks
when they made it.
We are all tough.
We have proven it.
Then came the first Christmas without the pushy old matriarch.
And everyone wants us to visit.
To keep up the old ways.
The lights go out in the hotel.
I have to walk down eighteen flights.
Alone in the dark.
I am tough.
In February we celebrate the day we met.
We had coffee machiato in a beautiful little coffee roaster in the downtown.
Time to talk, and time to be together and touch bases.
Before picking up mouthwash and socks
and heading home through the beautiful little half-timbered town where we live.
In the snow.
And the streetlights made everything crystaline.
And the lights twinkled in the snow.
And it was magical.
Before we got home and got hit by the next phone call- family in trouble.
But it WAS magical.
In March I was hit by a car.
And slept for a week.
We traveled to and from the grocery store two miles away with a ruck sack on my husband’s back.
Trying to decide how much toilet paper we could carry at one time,
and if we can manage a can of peas for tomorrow’s supper.
But it was silly.
And it was fun.
And it reminded us of student days.
And got me the exercise I needed to heal.
And since I couldn’t sing on Mondays,
we started watching The Big Bang Theory.
Which was marvelous fun.
In April I went back to a murder mystery I had had in progress when all of his happened.
And started feeling good about myself again,
after I was left standing in the rain, in shock, with broken ribs and torn muscles, by the police friends of the policeman who hit me.
And Easter we carried chocolate eggs and colored dye for the real eggs in our backpack.
And laughed as we cleaned the house in the old ritual of my belief.
And Easter was good.
And by May, glorious May,
we had our car.
A technical marvel we got a huge percent off on,
due to a technicality,
that has flashing yellow lights for cross traffic,
and beeping and squealing when you get too close to something.
I am glad it keeps us safe.
Even if the beeps and wipers and error messages aren’t in A-440.
But it hums quietly as it runs,
and reminds me of the fact that I am driving again.
And of how incredibly strong my husband and I are.
And now it is June.
And a time of firsts.
The first chinese food in four months yesterday.
The first trip to a town not in bus range.
The first trip into the city where we don’t have to start two hours early to allow for bus plan changes.
Our first trip to the botanical garden this year- no bus.
Our first outdoor luncheon with math friends we haven’t seen in a really long time.
And singing again.
Von Flowtow’s Martha.
We have been so incredibly blessed this year.
Life is good
If you let it.
copyright Dunnasead.co 2016
Teacher, Musician, Composer, Conductor, Writer. Sometimes the one, sometimes all. Life is good.