The Days I Loved You Most

by Amy Neff

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you... I could walk through my garden forever.” —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

“Well, if you’re so smart, what do you want to be?” “Yours.”

Joseph was a stone rubbed smooth by the crashing of our waves, a calming pebble you pocket and carry.

Our entire life like a series of shorter marriages to each other, linked in their similarities, but distinct. Familiar, but changed. Even in marriage she has never been mine, even now as we face our end together. She has never belonged to anyone but herself, and I have never belonged to anyone but her.

“We don’t get forever, but at least it’s on our terms. At least we don’t have to keep saying goodbye.”

We sit until the sun is too low to give off any warmth, until the day closes, with the promise of more warmth in the tomorrows that will predictably, and undeniably, end too soon.

How many more years could we share, if we left it to the stars?

I remind myself we’ve had more years together than most, and somehow, that will have to be enough.

The ocean a black and sweeping lullaby, our children and grandchildren swirling beacons around her, like fireflies, like silver minnows glittering beneath the surface, flecks of dust dancing in a stream of sunlight, like the clearest night dotted with stars.

I’ve learned there is much more to gardening than planting seeds and watering, it is a constant battle of weeding and fertilizing and pruning that I find exhausting. But not Joseph; he is steady in his care, patient with the elements outside of his control. Joseph seeks no recognition for his labor, his joy is in watching them blossom on their own.

“Marriage isn’t always easy, Violet, because life isn’t. Not every love is worth fighting for, but think of the family you’ve built, the partnership you have. Yours is.”

“Sometimes it’s easy to focus on what’s missing, instead of all of the things that are right.”

Real commitment requires cultivation. It’s not about the tingle in your belly and a rush of adrenaline. It’s not magic, or fairy dust, that sustains a spark. Steadiness over time is what makes it beautiful.

Maybe wanting it, believing in love, waiting until we find our way, isn’t enough. You shouldn’t have to work tirelessly, to talk the other into staying.

Love is walking hand in hand, following each other into the light.

I cry for the little girl who dreamed of love, and for the grown woman who is beginning to understand what it means.

It is something we both need, to be near the ocean; it relaxes us, reminds us we are a part of something bigger.

I need the cool calm of the water lapping against the shore and the smell of the sea to feel at home.

“The best way I can think to say goodbye is to revisit it all...falling in love, having our children, the grandchildren, all of it...even the days we were lost. It’s not only the happiest days, though they’re a part of it.” Her lower lip begins to tremble. “But it was also the hardest days. The days I was lost, the days I thought I’d lose you. When everything fell apart but you were all I needed.” A tear falls down her cheek, her hand clasped in mine, a hold so tender I never want to let go. “Those are the days I loved you most.”

In two months I’ll be forty-five, and it seems impossible to be halfway through this entire life, when I feel like I’ve barely begun. I imagine fifty years, then sixty and seventy, and the overwhelming feeling that anything worth doing should already have been done creeps thick into my throat.

“Our little life here with you, raising our family, that’s my dream. It’s boring to you, I know. I’m boring, loving you.” He fumes. “You’re so obsessed with wanting more, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

“There are so many reasons I love you, I could probably list them, but the truth is I can’t help it. I never could. I love you because you have this light in you...” I begin to cry, and he strokes my hair. “People are drawn to you, I have always been, you’re a magnetic force. You’re a dreamer and a fighter with more heart than anyone I have ever met.”

“What if there is nothing after?” “Well, then we won’t know the difference.” I consider this, and realize he’s right. There is no way to know for sure. “Do you think it will be heaven?” He shrugs. “I don’t know what heaven could offer that could be better than the life we had.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “How about one where you don’t scrub toilets?” Joseph laughs, smiles sadly. “I hope there is an ocean. And a sun to warm us after swimming.” I lean against him. “I wouldn’t mind if it was sort of like this, all over again.”

“Like I said, this life with you, this has been heaven for me.”

I don’t want to die, not yet, not ever. I’ve loved my life, I’ve loved our life, I want to stay.

need words stronger than I love you. I need a whole new emotion to describe the depths of which I care for the woman to whom I’ve given my life, and who in turn, has given her life to me.

It’s always been you. Even when I was afraid. It’s always been you.”

Again, as I often do, I wish for stronger words than I love you.

What a strange tradition, the way we say goodbye, kneeling over a casket, tiptoeing around small talk and muted circles, somber and bowed by decorum, how one’s own mortality emerges naked and emboldened in the forest of faces, stalking through the room. It seems too late, detached from the real experience of loss, how it lingers, the sharp pangs that follow: a familiar scent, a song on the radio, a memory plucked out of thin air while washing dishes.

I plead for another whole life together. This one wasn’t long enough.

It isn’t fair. It hasn’t been enough. It could never be enough.