In describing my wedding to Kat in the book I am writing, I wrote the following:

“The [wedding] ceremony went quickly and I remember nothing of it.  I was in a complete fog.  I remember saying “I do”, looking at Kat,  Kat and I kissing, and the best feeling I ever had, up that point in time, came over me.  I physically felt lighter, as if I was lifted up.   In that instant I knew my life had changed dramatically, it would never be the same, it would be better, much better.  And it was for almost 47 years”. 

Now I am in the part of our relationship that is not, and can never be, contemplated.  Love doesn’t stop; it goes on and, if anything, it becomes deeper.  There is no more running around, taking walks, going to the movies, going to the gym, fussing over the grandkids.  I have all of the time to think of her, and I do. 

I think of her at various times in our life together.  How she would make the few bad times we had together acceptable because we had each other.  Without saying anything,  she never let me forget it, and she was right.  Wherever Kat was, there was the party, there was happy hour.  People that didn’t know her thought she was drinking but she had not a drop for the first 30 years of our marriage.  No one had more ebullience for life and no one could become a good friend faster.  Her natural state was to think everyone worthy of love and encouragement.

Love may sneak up on you;  grief clobbers you.  I did not contemplate it,  so it was unexpected.

I am told by people in similar circumstances, and I read, that grief will lessen over time but it never entirely goes away.  As long as you have a memory,  it can’t go away.  I would not want to lose my memories so I must learn to deal with the grief.  It is oppressive, the opposite of the feeling I had when we got married.   It is the other side of the coin.