Today’s my birthday and I’ve been thinking about “Presents Ken has given me.” I know that makes me sound like a terrible person but just wait. It’s not avaricious in intent.

When we first met, on Carnegie Mellon University campus, we were both new master of arts students and he was a long-term employee there. That’s particularly relevant because it meant that we had a different dynamic. He wasn’t “just a student.” He didn’t study and do homework in the writing lab with the rest of us students because he worked in another building. Perhaps, if we’d spent 12-18 hours stuffed in a smelly little room together, we wouldn’t have wanted to meet in the cafeteria for lunch, or run to the on-campus deli (sadly, no longer there!). We would certainly have been friends but would we have formed a lifelong connection?

I can remember one particularly awful day — in case you are unfamiliar with CMU’s reputation, it is an extraordinarily stressful environment — when I was sitting at my little Macintosh computer, rewriting/redesigning the IRS W-2 form (yes, for the real IRS). Ken ran into the room, threw a package on my desk and ran back out again.  (I learned later in our relationship that it made him very uncomfortable to get or give presents, a hold over from his tough childhood. He got better at it when we had kids, perhaps because kids are joyful about the PROCESS — the anticipation, the presentation, the opening — even more than the actual gift.)

So, anyway, after he ran back out the door, I looked at the little paper bag. It was just a little brown bag, nothing remarkable. Having no expectations when you open something is wonderful because you’ll always be pleased by what you find. It could have been an art pencil, a sandwich or bagel (or one of his favorite pickles) from “our” little deli, a notebook from the bookstore. The on-campus options for gifting are broad!

Nope, none of those practical things. It was a candy necklace — yes, that’s right a candy necklace. It still makes me smile (and okay, cry/not cry) when I think about it. I didn’t eat it, ever. Eventually, when we moved from our first house, I had to throw it out because it got broken into bits during the move. He probably never knew that I didn’t eat it because of course I should have but that stupid candy necklace meant so much to me.

Over the years of little, unexpected gifts — car mats, music, a smoothie, nonsense poems he wrote — Ken was saying “I love you” and that’s the real gift.

It’s another difficult day, not because it’s my birthday but because it’s my birthday without Ken. I know it gets better (everyone says so) but as other — better — writers have said before me: I don’t want it to get better or easier; I want to have Ken here, with me, now.

I want Ken to help me go through all of our “stuff.” What books should I keep of the hundreds lining the shelf? Should I donate the dishes we bought together 25 years ago? I want Ken to help me make a new “to do” list. Do I need to repair the sidewalk crack that is now an entrance to Mr Chipmunk’s burrow? While I’m repairing that, should I replace the front porch that has an ever-larger crack (and a definite tilt)?

I want to ask Ken’s advice. My company posted my old boss’ job but at a lower level. I’m over-qualified by like ten years. I’m going to apply for it anyway but I’m also going to start another job hunt. Did you know, according to all the grief counselors, I’m not supposed to make any big decisions for at least a year?

There’s an orange milk crate on the sidewalk across the street from me and as I’m watching right now, maybe 10 kids, walking with their caregivers, see the milk crate, walk over, step up onto it, and jump off. They could easily go around but they don’t see that milk crate as a barrier. They see it as an opportunity.

And perhaps that’s the answer to my questions ….

Peace.

I keep seeing those click bait sites, like “You’ve been — cutting your pineapple/folding your sheets/loading your washer/other topic du jour — wrong your whole life.” Unless you’re hurting yourself in the cutting process or eating the rind instead of the pineapple meat, you’re not doing anything wrong. Seriously, what’s with the online shaming? I’ll cut my pineapple however I darn well please. Look, I’m all for learning a new trick but honestly, my t-shirts are folded just fine, my towels too, AND my fitted sheets. And who cares if they aren’t?! Is Martha Stewart stopping by to check? Because if she visits my house and makes any critical comments, I’ll be showing her the door, not the linen closet.

We continue to mark the days on the calendar. Some days are okay; some days are awful. All of them are empty without Ken. But that line of thinking doesn’t help with putting one foot in front of the other so each of us, in our own way, tries to move on. I talk to Ken a lot. He hasn’t noticeably answered but that might be because I’m usually crying or yelling at him during the conversation. I can totally see him saying, “I’m not responding while you talk to me like that.”

I’ve always liked learning but I’ve found that learning because you have to isn’t anywhere near the fun of learning …well, for fun. We’ve had what feels like more than the usual breakage, damage, repairs, etc. this summer. Did Ken just anticipate problems and solve them? Did things dare not break when Ken was alive? Am I really as clueless as I sometimes feel?!

The worst loss was my chromebook, a gift from Ken before he got sick. It died in July and I haven’t been able to write the blog since — no personal computer, just a work computer that I would never use for personal stuff. Today, though, I’m typing the blog on my replacement chromebook, a refurbished one from Woot.com. (Ian’s been “testing” it for me since it arrived but tonight he’s mad at me so the chromebook is available.) Buying a refurb off Woot is totally something Ken would have done. It’s my early birthday present to myself though he would have just said, “Will it make your life easier? If so, then get it.”

August 29th was our 25th wedding anniversary. The kids and I went out to dinner and toasted Ken but it was stressful. I can’t say that any of us actually enjoyed the experience. Perhaps it is enough that we tried but I’ll admit that I was glad when dinner ended. While I lay in bed that night, I cried for hours, but while I cried, I wrote about our wedding dance. Eventually, I posted it to Facebook, wanting to do SOMETHING to acknowledge the day for some weird, irrational reason. (Ken would have laughed. Truly, we forgot our anniversary more than we remembered it. Living our lives together every day was far more important to us than an annual nod to Hallmark cards, not that I’m dismissing the satisfaction of receiving a really nice greeting card. It just wasn’t our schtick.) Anyway, a friend who read my Facebook post asked me to share it in the blog, a good push for me to write again, and so, here it is. I hope it makes you smile:

Twenty-five years ago today, a young couple woke up early, full of hope, excitement, nerves, ready to publicly commit to spending their lives together. First, though, they really needed to practice that wedding dance one more time.

Months before, she had borrowed one of those wedding music compilation CDs from a friend. He rejected song after song. He already had The Song picked out and was just waiting for the right moment to suggest it.

They prepared extensively for their dance. First, they signed up for a ballroom dancing class. She didn’t mind it but he hated the instructor. Then, they joined an amateur ballroom dance group associated with the university they had attended. That was pretty good but they wanted more individual attention. He advertised on campus for a dance teacher and they met a wonderful young man who taught them for free because he loved to dance and wanted them to love it too.

They practiced every day and met with their teacher once a week for two months. They learned quickly and grew in confidence throughout the summer.

The wedding day eventually arrived and they dressed for one last early morning practice session. The groom was especially nervous because he knew the bride’s father liked to dance. He turned on their portable CD player in their empty garage/practice studio and held out his arms. In a Hollywood story, she would have floated into them and they would have sung beautifully together while spinning and dipping gracefully.

That isn’t real, though, and this tale is. So, that final practice went poorly and the nervous young lovers had a pre-wedding spat. She left to meet the bridal party at the hair stylist. Presumably, he turned off the CD player (perhaps after practicing a little more first?) and went back into their house to get ready.

They met up again at the church, fight forgotten, and pledged their love in front of family and dear friends. After pictures and a tossed bouquet, wedding party and guests traveled to the reception, where the bride and groom danced — beautifully or not. Only they really cared.

Thinking about you, Ken, and that wonderful, ridiculous dance. I will still need you (and miss you) when I’m 64.

Happy Anniversary, my dear.