June twenty-third would have my thirtieth wedding anniversary. I had been musing about it for days. My former husband emailed, and mentioned it, saying that it made him feel sad. On a whim, I suggested dinner.
We met at a restaurant overlooking the Ohio River. Sitting on the deck in the waning sun, we spoke of many things. The children are always a topic. How proud we are of Eric, our hopes for him. Rachel is a gem, and she worries too much about us. Our concerns about our youngest, and some of the life changing decisions she is facing and what would be the result. He said he had decided that worrying about her was not going to rob him of the joy of the rest of his life, and I silently agreed. We’ve fretted so much over the children. Though we are not done.
Our pizza comes, and the waiter adjusts the table umbrella to stave off the reflected sun in the water. We talk of the incomparable grandchild, Lili. No child ever born can rival her, not to her Gang and Goomah. We marvel at this little girl, born because two people met, fell in love and married thirty years ago. We gaze at the river, flowing away from us.
We stayed off controversial topics, as we watched a barge making its way down river, barely rippling the calm water. We relax over our food, enjoy the quiet companionship of the moment. He shades his eyes to make out the name of the tugboat pushing the barge, and a thought surfaces in my mind: what if he would die?
He speaks of how insane we once were, and I comment that we are in our right minds now, in a more peaceful existence. The hurt has faded, the anger gone, leaving bemusement; how did it all end up like this?
Rachel says she doesn’t know how we ever got together. Today, I live in my neat city house, with my cats, my friends, my books, my teaching. He lives in a country setting, with pond, dogs, garden, and his theater work. But we remember.
Shadows lengthen on the deck. The river is quiet. My watch tells me I have articles to read, pieces to write. We walk to my car, his truck, and hug. He says, “I’ll always love you, Mary Frances.” I smile, and we part.
