No one to share with

Last year, September 17th was a Tuesday. I took the day off from work and George and I headed into the city to get our marriage license from the Clerks office in TriBeCa. We held hands throughout the day. I miss just having a hand to hold. Especially when there’s no good reason except all you want to do is feel the warmth of the other person.

We got our marriage license and we had to wait 24 hours to be wed. I had a California recruit coming to campus on the 18th and so without hesitation we agreed that we would be wed on the 19th. 19 is my favorite number and I always wanted to be married on the 19th. George didn’t care. He just wanted to marry me and be husband and wife until he died.

After we got our license we went to a vietnamese restaurant around the corner. The name escapes me because to be honest it wasn’t that good. With news that George was dying we both decided to give up being vegan. You see, we became vegan because we hoped it would help fight cancer. But it failed us, and why continue if we no longer could rationalize why to stick with it. We both ordered vietnamese sandwiches, and before it came I started crying. I’m not a crier by any means. I rather pass out before you see me cry in public, but I just dropped my head and my shoulders started quivering. I couldn’t hide it.

When I looked up at him, he had tears in his eyes too, and he told me not to be sad. When he spoke, his words fell flat on my ears, he knew I had every right to be sad. I remember fiddling with the chop sticks at the table, and he asked me what I was thinking about. My eyes met his, and I looked away immediately and murmured, “who’s going to share a bag a skittles with me?” We both sat there weeping as the waiter brought us our food.

When George and I watched Sunday TV- Breaking Bad, Dexter and American Horror Story- we always split a bag of wild berry skittles. Green was my favorite so he always picked them out for me.

It’s really hard to lose the one person that made you the happiest. I find peace in other ways, but happiness still eludes me. I can feel the billowing cloud of emptiness swelling inside me.

I was supposed to grow old with him, not be widowed in my 20s.


About J.

Fitness professional, fitness & nutrition writer, widowed at 28. Writing about getting through grief through self-care, physical activity, and the ​constant feeling of being uncomfortable.
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