I remember when. Your hair was set above your head, and you wore pure white. When you walked down that isle I could barley breathe. It was like a fairy tale, you walking down the isle to me. That smile you gave me when your dad placed your hand in mine, made me feel so much less nervous. The words floated out of your mouth, not stumbling on a line, or a word. And mine. My vows were shaky, could you tell I was nervous? I was. So nervous. I was worried you were going to think you had made the wrong choice. And when the minister finally told me to kiss you, I was so happy. So happy that we were finally together.

I remember when. Our first year together. You and me, trying to live together like one. We’d have stupid fights over stupid things, and I slept on the couch so many nights. And it killed me to hear you cry yourself to sleep. And then we finally achieved that balance of life. And every morning I thanked god that I woke up with you beside me, my sleeping angel. And then you woke, you’d smile at me, and I’d press my lips to yours, and I’d be two hours late to work. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I remember when. When I found that pair of baby shoes on my pillow. And you just looked at me from the doorway, your eyes filled with tears. I don’t know how you could ever think I wouldn’t be happy. I was ecstatic. I was more than ecstatic. And we dealt with those awful mornings, and the stupid check-up and the moodiness together. And you’d apologize for snapping at me every night, and I’d just smile. I held your hand in that white room, and I was ready to faint. But you were so strong, and you gave me my son that day. I was a father for the first time.

I remember when. That first day of school. You cried on my shoulder as he walked into that classroom. He was growing up, and you hated it. Even though you wouldn’t tell me, I knew you did. And that night, when you cried yourself to sleep, I held you close and tried to calm you. Because I hurt just as much, our baby was growing up. And that scared me. Scared me so much. But I knew that I’d always have you by my side no matter what happened.

I remember when. You tried to be strong for the kids, but inside you were breaking. And as I watched that casket lower into the ground, I couldn’t understand why I never told my parents how much they meant to me before they died. We did that three other times; each time was as hard as the last. And when your mom died, I couldn’t do anything but hold you while you cried. And god did it kill me to see you in this much pain, in so much agony. But you were never alone. Never.

I remember when. You held my hand as we watched our little girl go out on her first date. They walked down that brick path, and drove off in that car, and a little piece of my heart drove off too. I stayed up until she came home, until I heard her footsteps on the stairs. And as much as I pleaded with you to let me go check on her, you wouldn’t, you knew that she needed her independence. So we fell asleep that night, you wrapped in my arms so if I went and checked on her you’d wake up. You were always a smart woman.

I remember when. When our eldest graduated. And you clapped proudly as he walked across that stage and accepted his diploma. That picture still hangs in my office, the three of us on that night. And when my baby daughter stood on that stage and addressed her graduating class two years later I was the one who cried, and you were the one who handed me tissues. The picture of the four of us, our family is tucked into the dresser mirror, and every morning as I comb my hair, I look into the smiling faces.

I remember when. You straightened his tie, and kissed him on the cheek. I shook his hand and sat down beside you as he took his place at the front of the church. And we stood as the march was played, and our future daughter in law walked down that isle. I saw myself in our son that day. The same nervousness, the same stuttering. But I also felt hope. Hope for the future. And that night he asked to dance with his mom and you cried through the whole song. That night was the loneliest I’ve ever felt, even though you slept beside me. Our baby was all grown up. He was married and having his own family, his whole life ahead of him. We raised him right.

I remember when. I walked our baby girl down the isle. And she looked so much like you, the same nervous smile, I wanted to cry. You held nothing back, sitting it the front row you couldn’t stop the tears. You cried enough for both of us. And when I danced with her than night, her face lit up when I told her she looked like her mom on our wedding night. Her husband danced with her next. And that’s when I realized that everyone was grown up, and we were back where we started. Just the two of us.

I remember when. You held our first grandchild. And you handed her to me; I was so scared I’d drop her. But you nodded and I took her, and a small pink hand clamped around my pinkie. Our little girl sat on the couch; head on her husbands shoulder as she watched us. She didn’t need to tell me, but I could see that she knew this was the life. This was the best life anyone could have hoped for.

I remember when. We babysat the grandchildren, all four of them. You’d bake them cookies all day, and I’d play outside in the snow with them. And at night we’d sit by the fire with two on each our laps, and tell them stories about their parents growing up, or us growing up. And you’d just laugh when I told them about our first date. And when it came to tucking them in at night, you’d kiss each of them and then when you thought I was asleep, you’d check on them once more just to be sure.

I remember when. That last night, you were lying in the hospital. And you looked so tired and worn out, but you refused to falter your smile. And I sat there beside you, stroking your hair while we reminisced about all the good times. Never once did you regret anything. And that final breath you took, I watched as your eyes slowly closed, the same smile on your face. And the last words I heard were ‘I love you’. The tears flowed down my face, and I realized that we lived it well. We really did. And as I write this, I know I’ll see you soon. I know you’ll be waiting for me. And I can’t wait much longer.