Pieces of a Widow

I remember when I first saw you. I entered the conference room and there you were, smiling, at the head of the table. You were so handsome. When you told the joke about the fox guarding the hen house, we were the only ones who laughed out loud. I remember how later that day while we were in training, you sat next to me. Although there were others in the room, I don’t remember them. I just remember us, on that day, at that time.

As I was ready to depart, I told you that I probably wouldn’t be back to that office because I was a temporary employee. You shook my hand and said, “I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” You were right. I didn’t go anywhere. Every day, our friendship grew. The first time we went out to lunch, I choked on the pepper in the salad dressing and you tried your hardest not to laugh out loud but your eyes said everything, like they always did.

I remember how every morning you would call me to see how my day was, even though it was only a few minutes into my commute. You wanted to hear about the previous evening and what plans I had for the day. We talked about things we loved and things that bothered us, hopes we had, things we had done in the past and things we wanted in the future. We went through a full array of emotions during those calls but there was always laughter.  Every day, you would walk me to and from the parking garage where we continued to learn more about each other.

I remember the time we ate at the Vagabond restaurant. I don’t remember anyone else being there as I only saw you. I looked into your bright, blue sparkling eyes. I know that you would say that your eyes are hazel but I remember blue. Everything around you blurred, like shadows. You looked at me and said, “You are an exceptional woman.” I will always remember you saying those words and how, at that moment, I began falling in love with you. I remember how we began to lean into each other while we walked, how whenever our eyes met it was more than a look–it was a searching, a longing. I remember the first time you held my hand. It was warm and wonderful. Through your fingers I could feel the beats of your heart.

You were a southern gentleman and your voice always drew me in. You called me baby girl and doll baby; no one ever called me that before. I remember how you could read me. You could look into my eyes and see the storm brewing or the love emanating or the frustration building. You always put me first and taught me how to put you first as well. You taught me the full meaning of true love.

I remember your laugh, very full and rich. You would start with a smile and then hit a certain pitch after which the tears would begin to fall. I couldn’t help but laugh with you as you removed your glasses to wipe your eyes.

I remember how we would walk on the beach, with fishing gear in hand. No matter how much stuff we had, we always held hands and we would call it our romantic walk. We would feel the morning sun on our backs or wonder at the beautiful sunset before us as we cast our lines into the bay. You would look over at me and smile. I would look over at you and get lost in thoughts of you. You were my everything. I would think of how blessed I was to have you as mine. I still see you against the horizon, with your rod in your hand–a time you were happiest with me by your side.

I remember when you asked me to marry you. You waited until right after midnight on Christmas Eve making it Christmas Day. You got down on one knee in the kitchen, opened a box with the most beautiful ring I had ever seen, and said, “Diana, will you marry me.” We talked about marriage but it didn’t prepare me for when you actually asked me. We gazed into each other’s tear-filled eyes and I said, “Yes!” and so our lives really began.