Big Bearded Heart

Oh, you pulled a funny one Mr. Walters!

I hate that photo. All I can remember as you hammed it up to your own phone was that there was no space for me. You can see it quite literally in the image that remains. The bearded one at his goofiest, scooping up all of the energy around us.

It was a day that marked one year of knowing each other. We knew nothing of the slow growing cancer that was also with us. And your antics spoke of the discomfort of anniversaries, of not knowing how two people could dance in a celebratory space.

We did that later. Dance. We spent a Sunday at a salsa bootcamp, and yours were the only hands I wanted on me. This single woman will not be hitting the salsa floor anytime soon. No revolving dance hands for me. I’m spitting on the floor to mark that commitment, like Tevye and the butcher Lazar Wolf. To life!

We also danced on a boat when we wed. You put your hands around me and I did the same to circle you, as we sealed our routine with a kiss.

Anniversaries.

Bravo Beardo. You really scooped me today. Nudging your goofiness into my social media feed for all to see. Peering around the edge of the image until someone acknowledged our anniversary . . . so that I might too.

Three years today.  An anniversary we have never marked with rapt hands and sealing kisses. You stepped off this dance just like you probably thought about doing, that lens hogging day. That day commitment overwhelmed ….

Thank you for the new music. It’s been awhile since another voice shared your message in lyrics. This latest one has been on heavy rotation since it landed late last week.

I should really have known you were up to something . . . Such a showy appearance in contrast to the constancy of your undertone. The feeling of your overgrown moustache passing before me well in advance of the compulsion to post your showy, image stealing mug.

So, bravo Mr. Walters. Bravo. You have made me smile today – from my toes – like you did not, that first anniversary of knowing. Like I could not that first wedding marker of your absence. Bravo for the cheekiness. The new music. The kismet from others who looped me in.

And Happy Anniversary, my dead husband.  The next move is mine.

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