Herewith, scattered notes and photos from the beloved’s and my anniversary date (a la the Baba’s Day pictorial), because the main dealie sitting on my shoulders these days still defies direct address, and yet squashes close to flat so much of everything else. Thus making truthful personal narrative somewhat challenging. The “main dealie” to which I refer still being the weighty, utterly unexpected early passing of a dear old friend. Her hometown memorial will be just this Saturday. My dear dear friend, her beloved, was on planes and in rental cars all day today in a long, long journey to go speak at it.
Emily Dickinson said “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant,” and she’s right. “Too bright for our infirm Delight/The Truth’s superb surprise,” says she, and I’m telling you I still need sunglasses to make out my morning eggs and toast. ‘Til I can even get to the point of telling that truth slant — “The Truth must dazzle gradually/Or every man be blind–” — best I can do is gather up a breezy narrative of my beloved and me celebrating many happy years together. Because there it is, sitting there alongside the eggs and toast, irony and all.
We secured an unprecedented twelve hours of childcare and were shocked — shocked! — at the number of distinct conversations that could be initiated and completed during this time, when no toddlers or children under five were present. (Note to other parents of young: DO IT! Quarterly at least! It’s so worth it! And I’m not talking date, I’m talking extendo-date, several hours past the length of your ordinary night out.)
After a delightful conversation-filled subway ride, we strolled on impulse to… tea at the Palace Hotel! Preceded by champagne! Sure, it cost an arm and a leg. Sure, we’re living on borrowed time. Whatever. It was grand, and I’d do it again in another week if given half the chance. Fortunately for our family budget, the beloved doesn’t even give me a quarter the chance. Or an eighth. How do you think we made it fifteen years without being impounded?