The prompt for this week is…
My husband finds it funny that even though I was a History major in college, I’m terrible at remembering dates. It’s true. I can remember trivial details, but dates just don’t stick in my head. Maybe it’s because dates are composed of numbers and I equate numbers with math and all things mathematical stick in my brain about as well as a fried egg on a new teflon pan. So I’ll be the first to admit that in this marriage I’m the one who has to be reminded of birthdays and anniversaries. Sometimes I forget how long we’ve been married, what time exactly our two children were born, sometimes I have to think hard to remember how old I am.
But there are things that I do remember with extreme clarity. Like how I wore a green blouse from Indonesia and a white skirt on our first date. I ordered a tuna fish sandwich. I remember drinking horchata at a Mexican take out place for our second date after driving around looking for a Starbucks and not finding one. That’s when I found out you liked playing Scrabble. I remember the first time I told you it wasn’t going to work, on the cell phone in the middle of Albuquerque. I remember the tears and prayers. I remember the second and third times I told you it wasn’t going to work, wandering around Cambridge, walking along the Charles River and more tears and prayers. I remember my text to you five months later and our conversation later that night in the stairwell of my apartment building because I didn’t want my housemates to hear. I remember you doing crosswords with me over the phone and that you brought a stack of crosswords cut out from the Daily Cal with you when you visited. We worked on them together in a cafe in Providence. In the midst of all the tears and prayers, long distance phone calls, scrabble games, crossword puzzles, walks along the river, I remember somehow falling in love. The rest, as they say, is history.