Tre Miller Rodriguez's Blog, page 53

Between trips to 3 different beaches today, we transformed raw...

Between trips to 3 different beaches today, we transformed raw cacao beans into chocolate. Under the guidance of a Dutch chocolatier. (And a wise cat named Selma.) #BeachChocolateFactory (at Playa Potrero)

Catching the sunset here is a local custom that I’d like...

Catching the sunset here is a local custom that I’d like to export. #whenincostarica (at Playa Danta, Santa Cruz, Guanacaste)

Postcards of pastels + palapas. (at Playa Potrero)

Postcards of pastels + palapas. (at Playa Potrero)

Sun-hugging on Playa Brasilto (Costa Rica)

Sun-hugging on Playa Brasilto (Costa Rica)

Sun-hugging on Playa Conchal. (at Costa Rica)

Sun-hugging on Playa Conchal. (at Costa Rica)

Living the Costa Rican version of a Corona commercial this week....

Living the Costa Rican version of a Corona commercial this week. (at Playa Danta, Santa Cruz, Guanacaste)

A glorious close to a day of body-boarding, shell-collecting,...

A glorious close to a day of body-boarding, shell-collecting, and non-clock-watching. (at Las Catalinas)

Great ball of sky fire in Costa Rica. (at The Club at Mar Vista)

Great ball of sky fire in Costa Rica. (at The Club at Mar Vista)

Seven-Year Twitch

A fuckload of mythology is associated with seven years: your marriage will get itchy, every cell in your body will replace itself, friendships of this length will last a lifetime. Having just experienced the seven-year deathiversary of Alberto, can’t say I’m a subscriber to the mythology.

Is seven years a superficial milestone…or does it symbolize a super meaningful one? If a birthday bouquet from Mr. Present wasn’t in my living room, would I feel lost today? If his I-know-today-might-be-rough-but-I’m-here-if-you-need-me texts weren’t on my phone, would I have called in sick to work and opened a bottle of wine before noon? Much as I’d like to say no, falling in love with someone other than my late husband means my answers are biased.

Here’s what I can admit: Alberto’s playlist isn’t gutting me like it did a year ago tonight. Also, I was more inspired today to pack for my upcoming Costa Rica trip with Mr. Present and his family than I was to find a new place to spread Alberto’s ashes. Neither of my busy parents got in touch to acknowledge the significance of March 15…and I didn’t remind them that they failed to do so.

Here’s what else: I have more than a twinge of guilt that my sublime mother-in-law will read this and —shit, my tears just rolled in—she’ll equate my lack of being gutted today with a sense that her son’s memory is fading. The opposite is actually true. Without Alberto, I would have no reference point for what grown-up love looks and acts like. No understanding that tomorrow isn’t promised. No urgency to appreciate the present tense.

My 30-something self didn’t know how to be the partner Alberto deserved—maybe this is some seven-year-epiphany shit?—but his life and death have since taught me how central honesty and expectation are to a healthy relationship. Posthumously, he’s saved me years of false living and, through this blog and my grief memoir, I’ve found something resembling a new life.

Mentioned to Mr. Present months ago that I’d like to see “Book...

Mentioned to Mr. Present months ago that I’d like to see “Book of Mormon.” Last night, he surprised me with birthday tickets to the show. Feeling lucky to have a significant other who listens…and laughs his face off to the same brand of humor as me. (Eugene O'Neill Theatre, NYC)