I'm entering this short story contest that receives a disgustingly-overwhelming amount of entries. I have no expectation of winning, but I do have a story to tell. It's due on December 11th and I have been staring at 3 sentences all morning. As we speak, I am listening to a guy do a cover of Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You and, simply put, bawling my eyeballs out of their sockets.
My short story is about how my grandmother met my grandfather. There is not a movie production company big enough to put a story like this together. It only happens in real life during one of the hardest times in our nation's history. And this morning, I was lucky...blessed...something enough to be allowed to hear it from her all over again.
And it wrecked my morning.
And I can't seem to get past those 3 sentences without being overwhelmed with the pressure of adding enough emotion and detail to make it as real as it is. She remembers every bit. The outfit she wore, how he smelled, the pattern of blonde streaks in his hair. The hole he left when he died.
And so it became my cliche "Thanksgiving week" blog post for a blog I sort of kind of never write on.
Dear Husband,
I fell in love with you again this weekend. Weddings do that. Time alone with you does that. You do that.
Goggle met her husband at a party. Just like I met you.
She knew she wanted to marry him right then. Just like I did.
She never thought twice about it. Neither did I.
And 27 years later, she talks about him like he's still there sitting next to her with a sly smile while she gushes over him. But he's not there.
I never want to feel that.
I am so thankful for every second. Every smile. Every laugh.
I will love you for all of my life.
