The Day We Danced

It’s maudlin time. I was looking at a picture of me and my wife. It was taken on the occasion of a friend’s birthday. It was outside. There was a band. A table with tequila. We were dancing and we were happy. In the picture I’m smiling in my black felt hat, and she’s smiling in her fine gray shirt with pearl snaps. She is holding me, and I, her. Warm embraces. As I looked at the picture, I thought, I’ll never be held like that again.

It was a hug that went all the way to the heart. It was a hug from the potent stew of a life lived together. It was a hug born of sorrow and sadness, triumphs and joys, pleasures and love. It was a hug for the children and the grandchildren. It was hug for the jobs and the homes. It was a hug for the trips and the travels, for sights seen and touched. It was a hug for moonlit nights on the beach and starry nights by the river. It was a hug from the bargain of a marriage—you hold me and I’ll hold you.

Sometimes I feel as though I’d like to do it all again because then I could correct any mistakes I made, and lord knows there were plenty. But you can’t uncook a meal; you eat it and enjoy it. So, I’ll savor what we had, the adventures and the misadventures, and keeping moving forward. I suppose one of the upsides to all this is that, in whatever time is left to me, I have a lot of memories to ponder and cherish and there’s really no rush to get through them. No rush at all. And sometimes I can hit pause and stare at a still, lost in a single point in time.