Another anniversary

Today is the Fourth of July. For my friends and family back in the States, it means Independence Day. But for me, this day is far more special, more meaningful. Thirteen years ago today, Chris and I got married. We had been together for nearly two years, had been engaged for well over a year, had planned several weddings we then cancelled because of my father's health. (I just couldn't imagine getting married knowing he was so unwell.) I imagine we could have gone on forever without actually getting married, but Chris' health problems (at this point some cardiac issues were showing up) and the fact that my mother wanted us to come to States after Dad died in March 2008, the decision to finally get married made sense. 

It was a beautiful day in Moffat, Scotland. Our appointment at the registry office was set for early afternoon. We assembled there with our two witnesses and did the deed. Funny, my first marriage had been the whole wedding thing - the dress, the flowers, the guests, the food and drink. But somehow, this wedding was far more joyful. I was marrying my best friend, my traveling companion, my soulmate, my lover. Chris was everything to me and, still unable to believe it, I was everything to him. I never knew I could ever love anyone the way I loved him, the way I love him still. We both wore white and I topped my outfit with a beautiful chiffon floral duster. After the wedding, went to the Buccleuch Hotel for drinks (we had a dram of whisky from the stunning ancient bog oak and sterling silver quaich we had bought from Garth Duncan on Skye) and prepared for going to the hotel in which I was working for our wedding dinner. My dear friend, Heather, manager of the hotel, had set up our dinner in a private dining room, with flower petals strewn about and a portable CD player adding to the ambience with beautiful smooth jazz. It was magical. I had never felt love like that before and I will never feel love like that again. But I carry it in my heart for ever.

We made it to our tenth anniversary before cancer took my precious Chris. We weren't sure we were going to make that anniversary. But we did. And we made the anniversary of our first date in the month that followed. At that point, we both knew that our time was growing short. But we still had each other and we held onto that as tightly as we could. And I held him as tightly as could until he had given up his last breath.

This is the third anniversary I've had to experience without Chris. I keep thinking it will get easier, but it doesn't. The other night I dreamed about him and awoke to dried salt trails on my cheeks. Even if the dreams are happy dreams, I cry. It is as if, somewhere beyond my dreams, I know that his presence is in my mind and heart only, not in life. I wish, I really wish, I could hold him just one more time, hear his voice speak my name, feel his hand in mine, his arms around me, see his twinkling eyes, and see that cheeky smile. I miss him so much, and the missing him is not abating with time. In a way, the missing him becomes more and more acute with each passing day, each passing month, each passing year. 

Callie and I have started having our "wandering Wednesdays" - the one day of the week that we drive somewhere just to get out and about. While Chris and I traveled Scotland extensively, Callie has still had little in the way exploring this beautiful country. So our first wandering Wednesday, we went to the Isle of Seil. It is a small island about 45 minutes outside of Oban. I didn't recognise the name at first, but as we drove along that road, it suddenly became familiar. I asked Callie if we would be driving over the Bridge Over the Atlantic and she said yes. I knew why the road was familiar. Chris and I had made the drive. As we passed over the beautiful single-lane hump-back stone bridge that arches high over a stream that meets the Atlantic on both ends (hence the nickname - its real name is the Clachan Bridge), I saw the car park across the narrow road from the pub. Chris and I had eaten lunch there on the day we visited. I burst into tears. The memories came flooding back and not having Chris beside me felt raw. We drove on until we reached the carpark at the end of the road. As you can see from the photo, it was a foggy day, but it was still beautiful. And while Callie got out and took some photos, I sat in car and talked to Chris. And I cried some more. But, the memories, while evoking tears, were happy memories. 

Chris and I spent so much time exploring Scotland, traveling nearly every road in this country, from The Borders to the most northern coast. And we were so happy doing that. Chris and I would get out and walk (back when I could) and he would take photo after photo. We loved where we were and what we were doing. They were such happy times. And my memories are happy. It's knowing that he's not here anymore that make me sad. Below is our last silly couple photo, taken just five months before Chris died, taken on the day of his daughter Lucy's wedding. Chris' lovely, kind nature never left him. He was and will always be my hero. The way he faced his illness and death was a masterclass in grace and courage.















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