A letter

Marjorie,

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about our life together. Writing to you feels like the only honest way to do it. I also know others may read along, and I hope they will come to know you a little better through my remembering.

Sixty-one years is a long journey to summarize. I can’t possibly do that. What I can do is speak to you the way I lived with you, by remembering who you were in the moments that mattered.

You were the most understanding person I ever knew. I learned that early. About a year after we were married, my best friend from college asked me to be the best man at his wedding in New York City. I happily and proudly accepted. Three weeks before the wedding, the Air Force assigned me to a one-week airlift mission to Germany. No sweat, right?  Two weeks to spare.

Murphy had other plans.

Our C-130 broke down in Germany, and we waited nearly two weeks for a part that was unavailable there. Oops.  I had to call my friend from Germany and cancel out from his wedding. Worse still, I had promised you a romantic return trip to New York, our honeymoon city.

You never complained. You never resented the uncertainty of my life as an Air Force officer and aircrew member. You never even hinted I change my career plans. You simply understood, and you stood with me.

You were beautiful. I first saw you in 1962 when I drove the hostess of a party to pick you up from the Medical College Hospital (now MUSC), where you were working the 3 to 11pm shift as a nurse. You rarely got to attend parties because of those long hours.

I watched you come down the hospital steps in your white nurse’s uniform, and you looked like an angel.

Love at first sight? Apparently not, since I didn’t date you until 1963, and we married in 1964. I’m the epitome of the slow mover. But I got you.

You were wise. I used you as an example in workplace seminars I taught at Trident Technical College on “Getting Along in the Workplace.” Your wisdom showed up in a simple habit. You knew when to ignore me.

I would come home from work and rant about some minor thing because I had a crappy day. Instead of reacting defensively, you would “ignore” me and stay quiet. After a while, I would realize I was acting like an a–hole and sheepishly apologize. Your wisdom avoided so many possible clashes. It also cost me a buncha money, because apologies often included dinner out, flowers, or the occasional bauble of jewelry.

You were talented in ways.  I was in awe. You were a superb psychiatric nurse, a devoted mother, and later in life, a gifted interior designer. You helped sell numerous homes by staging them for resale, thanks to your natural eye for layout and design. That talent was always there. You simply waited until later in life to develop it, to the delight of many satisfied clients.

You were forgiving. That mattered more than either of us understood at the time. When young people marry, forgiveness is essential, because young people do not always make great decisions.

One of my good friends, Wally, had a small Cessna airplane and a private pilot’s license. Another good friend was getting married in Mississippi. Wally said, “Hey guys, I’m goin’ to Biloxi to see Tom get married. Wanna fly down with me?” I said yes, sorta forgetting that I had a wife. Not smart.

I flew down and returned the next day without ever consulting with you or asking you to come along. Oh s—t.

When you confronted me on my return, I had no defense. Luckily my head wasn’t entirely filled with mush.  I had no real choice but to hang my head and apologize profusely. I promised never to leave you out of decisions again. You forgave my juvenile forgetfulness. Coulda been a lot worse.

You lived love most clearly in ways that never needed explanation. “In sickness and in health” from our wedding vows became very real when I survived colon cancer. I was the survivor. You had to survive me.

I will not gross you out with TMI. I will only say that it took deep, steady love for you to endure those long, difficult years with your usual grace and patience.

You were my best friend and my partner. I miss you every day. I still talk to you about everything, except you are not here to answer.

You were my constant sounding board through raising children, dealing with weak or autocratic bosses, trying to afford life for us and for the kids, and moving more times than either of us wanted. You were always there.

I know we will be together again. But I miss holding your hand when we walked. I miss your voice, even though I did not always hear it well. I miss your smile and your laugh. I even miss you scolding me for telling people too much, like I am probably doing now.

So. Enuf.

I miss you.