I smile when I tell the story.
And for too long never really saw that conversations quieted, that listeners heard the sow’s ear of pain I’d lovingly tried to disguise as a silk purse of humor.
I’d crafted—I thought–a tribute to Dave’s wit and cleverness.
And, more than I wanted to acknowledge, a cautionary tale about the shadowed side of our marriage.
Wed without fanfare— for that matter any audience except Dave’s daughters and our closest friends—we celebrated the miracle of us and a real family’s home, a shift from bachelor living to the graces of a bungalow, furniture placed for a long and grownup future.
Two months later we shared the news with a house party, a blessing, food, family, fancy dress.
And in response, my office gave us the gift of further celebration: a weekend at Yellowstone’s Lake Hotel, time to ourselves, new territory for our new marriage.
A year elapsed. Two. We tended to Dave’s parents: Dorothy’s hip and George’s surgery, their move from Wisconsin to a house close by. To an angry, consuming forest fire season. To skating past Dave’s almost lung cancer straight toward his heart attack. The sweet ordinarinesses of a garden, summer baseball, lasagna assembled for one more North Fork weekend, time together at the end of a workday, each other’s shelter.
And so the office rethought their gift, traded us the hotel certificate for cash, wished us well in a belated honeymoon at a place of our choosing. Wished us still that ritual – a touch of the exotic, nights to call our own.
Three or four years. My mastectomy. Dave’s second heart attack. Amanda’s move to our home. The dramas of middle school; 4-H rabbits waiting patiently for clean cages and parsley. Meals walked down nightly to George and Dorothy.
I would, of course, find moments to ask—to fuss a bit thinking of my puzzled staff. To speak lightly of my longing, but not, of course, own up to the dialogue in my head. That we—the two of us–wouldn’t be important enough to merit our own three days alone—a getaway with no health crises, sports, children, historic buildings, research.
And then one day, rather than sighing and offering another honestly good reason for why the next weekend wouldn’t work, Dave looked over at me– his face alive with surprise and indignation. “You mean you don’t remember our honeymoon! You mean you can’t even summon the most important days of your life?”
And his story—bold-faced fabrication, skilled drama–never changed. Ever. No matter my queries. Photos? Unfortunately lost. Mementoes? Why would we need those—when we had each other? Details? It’s a lovely, golden blur.
Faced with my wordless sputtering, my hoping heart, Dave just kept smiling and dissembling. What – surely you remember, Marcella!
I do now, in the silence since Dave’s death. The delicate filigree of his love—woven more into lightly, shyly offered action than Victorian fuss. Maybe a twenty-year honeymoon of nights illuminated by the universe’s heart-stopping stage at the North Fork. 60 miles of Glacier peaks and pines, framing a star-bright sky, the aurora’s colors curling around us. And still . . . . ©
