I woke up yesterday morning to what was the twelfth anniversary of when I met Ken–when my life changed direction in the subtlest yet most dramatic of ways. I knew it was coming but as it got closer, it slipped my mind. For someone who is date-obsessed, I’m not sure how that happens. Or maybe I am. As I lay there, ensnarled in my flannel sheets and the quilt Ken’s grandmother made for him for his high school graduation, I let all the memories this date invokes wash over me. It was an important way for me to start the day.
Thoughts of the night we met at a bar just a few blocks from where I live flooded my brain as I blissfully relived those first exciting moments of our meeting–and so any others that followed. It’s so easy to get lost in thoughts of Ken–the purr of his voice or the sparkle of his smile–both of which enraptured me on this night a dozen years back.
As I lay there thinking about him, I wondered if it would always be the case. Would March 23 always be an important date for me? Would time’s relentless push forward wear away the connection I feel–the one I want to feel–with this date? It saddened me to think there might come a day when my memories of meeting Ken on March 23 won’t come to mind on this anniversary. Ever the guy who worries about things ridiculously far in advance, I stopped myself. “One March 23rd at a time,” I could hear him saying.
Ken was on my mind all day. If Kallie was around, I regaled her with a story or two about “Papa Kenny” as we carried on with our day. As usual, she was a great source of joy for me as we played on our walks and inside the apartment. I bought a bunch of fun snacks and watched TV that evening. And my night ended with a fluffy black ninja sprawled over my lap and snoring like I was a piece of furniture.
It was a scene Ken would have appreciated–which makes me love it even more.