Anniversay Day

2026Anniv

Anniversary Day

     Paul Lerner looked at his iPad as he did first thing every morning.  Yes, it was July 30, the date of his anniversary.  It would have been their sixtieth.  They had celebrated their fiftyseventh before Sally’s sudden passing away.

     Like all such days it would be a difficult one to get through as it was an acute reminder that Sally was no longer there.  Paul looked at the copper bracelet on his right wrist, whar he rhought of  as his reminder bracelet.  On the back of th bracelet wes inscribed something that was of meaning only to him and Sally, the numder of years they were together.  As he always did Paul told Sally that he loved her, tht he’d always love her.

     On the table beside his chair was a little booklet that his neighbor had made for him of pictures of Sally that had been shown on the screen at the church for her “celebration of life.”  Paul knew the pictures by heart.  The first one was of Sally and Paul on their wedding day.  Whenever he looked at that picture Paul thought of how young they looked, how young and how happy.  Sally was smiling broadly and he had on the sappy grin of a bridegroom.  Then he’d start to cry.  He didn’t want to but it happened anyway.  He’d looked at the pictures later, maybe in the afternoon.  Now he’d better have his breakfast.

     The morning had somehow gone by.  While having breakfast he’d checked the financial news on his iPad and then the regular news.  Neither was good.  He looked at his e-mails that had accumulated overnight, almost all spam.  An e-mal from one of his e-mail pen pals he’s answer later.   This was a Wednesday, the day he usually called his sister.  He decided he’d call tomorrow.  He didn’t feel much like talking today.  He’d gotten dressed and made his daily trip to the mailbox, gone through the the usual assortment of requests for donations and tossed most of them.  He’d had a sandwich for lunch.  He watched an hour’s worth of news.  It was still bad.

     He reached over and got the little booklet of Sally’s pictures.  He looked at the first one, of him and Sally on their wedding day.  He was surprised that he didn’t start crying.  Time didn’t heal all wounds, he knew, but it did dull the pain.  If not, how would people keep on living?  He looked at the rest of the pictures:  Sally in their first house, Sally with their three sons, Sally with their cats, Sally with their grandchildren, Sally on their travels after he’d retired.  Sally growing older but still beautiful to him.  Several times he began to tear up but he didn’t start crying.

     After he’d had his supper, a frozen TV dinner, Paul leaned back in his chair and reached for the booklet of picture.  There once again was Sally and him on their wedding day,  Impossibly young, impossibly hopeful.  All at once he began to cry, deep wrenching sobs.  Why did life had to end like this?  He looked at his bracelet.  “I love you,” he said.  “I’ll always love you.”