We slept in the house of a woman we didn’t know. She made us coffee and showed us what she called her urban porch. I sat in the sun, you in the shade, drinking our coffee wondering when the car would be fixed but not really caring one way or the other.
It was our first morning as husband and wife. I remember thinking the world was so bright and so big, and that somehow, we’d see it all, together, with or without a car. You laughed when I said it. Your laugh is sunshine. Then and now.
I write ‘remember’ on a flyer I picked up on the sidewalk. If I write it enough, I’ll never forget that day. Never again. I tuck the paper in my purse and look around, down the street, past the pretzel man, but you aren’t there. But then I think, maybe you never were.