Happy anniversary, Love! (#1364)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Michelle and I were married on August 29, 1987. Today is August 29, 2025. That would make it our 38th wedding anniversary. Or at least it would if she were still alive. I’m not sure how to deal with that whole ’Till death do us part thing. She still feels like a part of me, and I expect she always will, so I’m going to say that it’s still our 38th anniversary.

It’s funny. There are many ways we reversed traditional gender roles in our lives together. I tended to cook. She tended to arrange the finances and mow the lawn. Our kids say we broke their understanding of gender roles. I think that’s good [1]. Anyway, one way in which we broke those roles was that I always remembered what day we were married, and she tended to forget. I’m not sure that’s relevant anymore, but I value the memory (and the memory of the memory).

Anniversaries should be happy times, a chance to look back on years (decades, even) of love. I’m hoping I can still maintain some of that. I assume anniversaries are hard for those who’ve lost their spouse. It feels like it may be even harder for me (if that’s possible) because our 37th anniversary is when she unexpectedly entered the hospital for the final time. We had a light celebration planned; after all, she was still recovering from a few summer months in the hospital recovering from the impact of some lung infection. Our celebration ended up with us sitting in the ICU while they tried to figure out why she was so dizzy. We assumed she’d go home after a few days. We were wrong.

On most anniversaries, we told each other what we meant to each other [2]. Sometimes that involved cards and notes, both short and long. Other years, we shared our cares out loud; sometimes it felt like our love was strong enough that cards were unnecessary. My muse thinks that I should celebrate this year’s annivesary by writing Michelle a note and sharing it with the world.

Here goes.

Dear Michelle,

I love you. I love you lots and lots and even more. But you knew that. And I know that you love me, too.

I feel so lucky that we found each other. And yes, I know that you’re somewhat responsible for that. Or even primarily responsible. So thank you for finding me and getting us together. And thanks for putting up with me.

We’ve made such a good partnership over the years. It seems like each of us is usually able to catch up when the other struggles. Or maybe you just help me when I struggle; I hope it’s a two-way street. (At least I cook and sometimes follow instructions for cleaning.)

I can’t hope to list all the things I love about you. But I can start. I love your smile. I love how much you care for people, particularly your patients, and how you strive to make a positive difference. I love you when you’re silly; just the other day, I was thinking about the way you’d bounce into a room where I’m sleeping (or maybe where the boys are sleeping) and in a chipper voice go wake up wake up wake up. I love just sitting in a room with you, feeling your presence. I love playing cards and games with you, even if I do regularly frustrate you when we partner in Canasta. I love our conversations.

I’m so proud of the young men we’ve raised. We can’t take all the credit; many other people have had an influence. But we’re the main ones. Perhaps you’re the main one, although I’m confident that I also had an impact. I see my impact when I talk to Eldest about teaching or in the ways Middle and Youngest enjoy playing with language. Yours shows up in their attitude toward the world, their ability to get things done, and so much more.

I’m sorry for the years in which our anniversary didn’t go as well as you would have hoped. I can only remember two, but I’m good at forgetting. (You always served as my memory.) I ended up spending our fifth anniversary in France, attending a conference. I should have found a way to bring you. And I had us come back from our 25th anniversary earlier than you expected because I wanted to attend the first day of Sculpture. I’m very sorry. I hope some of the better anniversaries made up for it. You definitely deserved a more sensible husband.

I wish we could still be physically together. It’s hard having a mostly-one-way conversation with you. But I feel so fortunate for the thirty-seven-plus years together, especially the last few years, even if they were hard.

The boys and I have been listening to Bad is Beautiful of late. Since they’re not up to continuing the Rebelsky Book Club, they’ve started a Rebelsky Listening Club in its place. Our conversations aren’t as deep, but the club still connects us. Recently, one of them wanted to return to an old family favorite. Listening to Squeezing the Puzzle Together had me in tears; they tell me that Not Dead Yet made them tear up, even though it’s not a sad song. In any case, a mutated version of a line from Ashes of My Heart seems to keep running through my head.

We fell in love together

Spent so many years together

Why must I go on alone?

It’s probably not a good song to think about, since the focus is on a breakup rather than a continuing love, and I’ll always continue to love you. But this mutation fits my mood, even though I’m not sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

In any case, I LOVE YOU!

Lots and lots and even more.

Happy Anniversary, Love!

Not the perfect letter, but it suffices. And, as I’ve noted elsewhere, I don’t have the energy to edit, particularly not to resolve the past/present dichotomy. She’d understand.

[1] Queue Marlo Thomas singing Free to Be You and Me.

[2] Wow, that was an awkward sentence. I’m not sure that I have the physical or mental energy to fix it.

Version 1.0 of 2025-08-29.