03 19 00

forever

I did it. I managed to critique two stories today.

True, one of them was really short so it only counted for half credit, but I sent off two critiques today. I ended up having to go to the public library to do it, though. Every time I tried to do it at home, distractions kept popping up.

I picked the quietest corner of the library, but it was still pretty noisy. I'm so used to the university library. That place is quiet like a tomb. Sometimes when I'm at the university library, I'll drop a pencil or something on purpose just to make sure my hearing still works.

Today, there was two high school kids studying Latin in the section I chose. Or rather, the girl was studying Latin and her tutor was studying her. He talked really loud (for a library setting) and kept leaning over, his shoulder touching hers, so that he could show her something in the book. Just watching them (although I tried not to) creeped me out for some reason.

After I finished my critiques I checked out a few more wedding books. The library has lots of Modern Bride and Bride magazines bound into books, and I've been checking those out one at a time. I also got a book on weddings that was filled with pictures of dresses, flower arrangements and other stuff, just to give me ideas.

And, boy... Have I been getting ideas - and not terribly pleasant ones.

Now, before I go any further, let me state for the record that I am terribly in love with Dave, and I have every intention of following through with marrying him. I want to do it. It just scares me. A lot.

I know I've talked about this before. But every time I try to write about my feelings for the situation, I'm stuck for words. This is Yet Another Try.

One of the things I've been doing in preparation for wedding planning is looking at ceremony ideas. My church is fairly free form with what we can do, and Dave and I will probably write (or borrow) much of the material for the service and the vows. But lots of the vows I've looked at have included a variation of this phrase:

I promise to love you forever. I look forward to growing old with you.

To love you forever. To grow old together. For some reason those words stop me cold.

Forever is a long, long time, but it's hard for a person to wrap their mind around the idea of "forever." I mean, people (on average) live for eight or nine decades. That seems like forever to us. But forever means until the end of time. Forever after now. Through death, through whatever comes next. Paired, eternally.

He will be mine and I will be his. Forever.

I can't comprehend that.

I've lived for 25 years. I've been alive "forever," you know? I think back to when I was 15, and it seems like ages ago... But at the same time it feels like yesterday. I can remember getting my driver's license temps. I can remember where my locker at school was and what the combination was (7-10-26).

Then I try to think of the intervening time between then and now, and my mind reels. It's "only" been ten years. But in that time I went to prom. I graduated from high school. I went to college. I got my commercial driver's license. I earned my bachelor's. I've gained friends and lost them again. I learned how to use a computer, and I forgot how to play the violin.

But there's another reason those vows give me chills. When I was 15, Dave was 26.

At the time, we had no clue about the other's existence. And if we had met and fallen in love then, it could never have worked out (and he would probably be in big trouble!) In that decade, we became the people we are today. He became the man I love, and I grew into the woman he wants to marry.

But to grow old together is boggling to me. In ten years... Will we change? (Probably.) Will we still like each other? (Hopefully.) Ok. Then what about in 20 years? In 30? In 40?

I haven't even lived 40 years yet. I can intellectually think 40 years into the future, but I can't understand it.

And in 40 years... Will I still have Dave to love?

In 40 years, he'll be 76.

At work, I talk to a lot of the ladies we carry around. Many of them are widows. Whether they lost their husbands a year ago or twenty years ago, they all still remember their lifetime companions.

Not too long ago, I was taking a lady home from the grocery store. She climbed on the bus with her bags, and we started a pleasant conversation about the weather or something. The chatter died down, and I glanced back to see her staring out the window.

Suddenly, she said, "Today is my wedding anniversary."

I wasn't sure what to say, since I knew her husband was dead. I just nodded.

The lady met my eyes in the mirror and smiled. "In fact, this would have been our fiftieth wedding anniversary."

Again, I was stuck for words. I mumbled something like, "Oooh."

She leaned forward and patted me on the shoulder. "It's all right," she said. "Frank and I had forty-two wonderful years together. The past eight have been hard without him, but whenever I miss him I can look back over the years and remember all the good times we had."

At the stoplight, she waved her arm next to my face. "Look at this." I looked and saw a gold bracelet hanging from her bony wrist. "He got this for me for our forty-first anniversary. The last one we had together." She sat back in her seat and stared at the bangle on her arm. "I think he knew he wouldn't have another chance to give me a golden anniversary gift."

There is so much that I want to do with my life. But now, whenever I look into the future I see Dave beside me. Usually. Once in a while I see myself, alone, riding a bus to get my groceries. I see myself telling the driver it's my fiftieth wedding anniversary. And then I see myself walking into an apartment built for one.

I don't know how that lady does it. Maybe it's because I haven't had forty-two years with Dave to look back on. Maybe you earn a little wisdom and a little peace. But right now I'm broken up over this. I want to love Dave forever. I want him to always be by my side. But whenever I hear the word "forever," I think of that empty apartment, that woman on the bus.

I love you, David. Forever - however long that really is.

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