a lifetime in six valentines

1.

I pull up outside a house in my mother’s car; he is in the passenger seat. Conversation flows like the thick, heavy fog flows into all the crevasses of the silent city outside. It is Friday the 13th but I feel luckier than I ever have before. We’ve just come from a bar, the type of bar where the carpet sticks to your feet and the stale smell of cigarette smoke and too much alcohol permeates everything. It’s the going-away party of a co-worker I didn’t particularly like, but some force made me ditch the plans I had with the current man in my life and head to this bar. And as we sit idling in his back alley, I see that force for what it is: Fate.

The green digital clock on the dash reads 12:10. It’s Valentine’s day now. Do it, I urge myself. I lean in as he is leaning in too, and we share one perfect, innocent kiss. Happy Valentine’s Day, I whisper, and he says it too before heading into the house.

And so it begins.

2. 

It’s been a year since we locked eyes over the sticky tables of the pub. We’re living together now, for no other reason than we just couldn’t stand to be apart. Our place is small, next to a train yard. We leave the window open whenever possible and fall asleep to the faint sounds of clanging bells and crashing rail cars.

We have a used love seat, a mattress on the floor, a set of pots from the late 60s, a chipped coffee table, a collection of different-sized dishes that have been passed down over generations. None of that matters, though; Our home is so full of love, we have no room for furniture anyway. We’ll eat on the floor off of chipped aging plates and we’ll both decide this is the best meal we’ve ever had.

We save our money and spend our one-year anniversary in the mountains. We vow to do this every year. We are certain there will be at least 50 more.

3.

The year has been a difficult one; our second anniversary is shrouded in the black veil of tragedy that still hangs over me. More than half a year after my father’s sudden death, I have still not fully come out of the dark place that was, for the most part, unknown to the optimistic, even-tempered person I had always been before.

The anniversary of our meeting coincides with the mountain wedding of my cousin; we decide to count that as our annual getaway. But armed with an open bar, I drink myself into a grief-fueled frenzy, and at the end of the night, he picks me up soaked in tears off the bathroom floor of our freezing motel room. The next day, we catch up with some favourite family members over a hangover brunch, and though my headache is real, I can feel the fog lifting. We share gossip and stories of wedding passed and under the table, I grab his hand in silent thankfulness, for sticking by me through this.

4.

Our third anniversary passes quickly–too quickly. I can hardly spare a moment for him between two jobs, night classes and packing for a 5-week trip to Australia and New Zealand with my girlfriends. We do dinner before I go and we share a long, warm hug. I take his face in my hands; I’ll make it up to you, I whisper.

I don’t, though. It’s forgotten in the hustle of travel and work and work and travel. I won’t realize until later that I took our anniversary trip with my friends instead of him. It’s been three years; It’ll be four before I realize that this is when I started taking things for granted.

5.

We have a brand-new couch, an office, a spare room, a kitchen table. A microwave, a dishwasher, a back yard, a good bed, a garage. We have stocks and RRSPs. The only thing we don’t have is free time. We have a nice place to live but not enough time to look after it. We’re working, more than ever. He’s working out of town. We’re grown-ups now. We’re further away than we’ve ever been from the couple we started out as.

And days before our four-year anniversary, it catches up to us. We need to talk, he says in the darkness of our bedroom one night, and he was right. I know, I whisper back. And in the darkness of that winter night, we realize that neither of us can see through the thick February fog anymore.

But weather changes. The next day, the fog lifts, and he is the first thing I see at the other end. We wrap ourselves up in each other’s arms, like two long-lost puzzle pieces that fit together and make the whole picture complete. We vow to weather this storm, right then and there.

6. 

I look at the calendar -- it's Friday the 13th, the same day we met all those years ago. We are have a world apart, geographically speaking, and Sunday is the day we reserve to catch up with one another. Call, I will him from this other continent, call, please I know we said Sunday but I really want to talk. Call. And he does. We are hundreds of miles apart and yet he sounds like he's right next door, He feels like it too. After five years, conversation is easy. Being apart is not but we're muddling through.

It amazes me, still, that we've weathered all these February 13ths, through tragedy and triumph and across provinces and oceans. It hasn't always been easy but it has most definitely always been worth it.

Comments

[Lauren G]

I think it's pretty well-known that I hate VDay... for a range of reasons.

But this post has brought tears to my eyes... and then pouring down my face.

Beautiful story Marthy... I can't say I'm not incredibly jealous.

Happy Anniversary to you and your man ;) xxxxx

[Jenny B]

I also was moved to tears by your story Marthy. I always say I don't understand this whole "love thing". Well, you just put it into words I can understand. Happy anniversary.

[Alissa]

Martha, that was such a beautiful post... and I too am crying, haha. We are off to Sunday supper and we all miss you! Happy Family Day :)

[Alissa]

Martha, that was a beautiful post... and I too am crying, haha. We are off to Sunday Supper and we allmiss you! Happy Family Day :)