I remember when we met, you were walking through the plant and looked up and smiled at me and my face turned fire red and you said, concerend "Aren't you feeling well?" Unaware that I'd been watching you for weeks, and had even bought a dress in voodoo like anticipation of our first date.

I remember our first date, we played racquetball. You hit me in the ear with your racquet, hard.  I lay on the floor grunting with pain and you squatted next to me with this panicked "God, don't let her cry" look on your face. 

I remember how at work we used to sneak up to the top of the grain elevator  and kiss,  keeping our eyes open because it was loud and we had to wear earplugs and wouldn't hear anyone coming.

I remember driving to work together each morning that first summer,  your blue Oldsmobile smooth on the two-lane highway bordered by rows and rows of corn.  I would  squeeze myself between you and the steering wheel so I could hug you all the way to work.  I liked to feel your arms and legs shifting calmly with the motions of driving. I always found your quiet  confidence, your unfussy competence so soothing. 

I remember our first fight, though not what it was about, just the passion of it.  "Are we breaking up?" I asked in a moment of startling candor.  I wasn't looking for reassurance, we both knew that.  No, you said, without hestiation, and everything, really, was settled in that instant.

I remember telling you about my anorexia. "You seem normal now," you remarked,  and remnants of the disorder slipped off me as easily as a shawl on a hot day. 

I remember the way you shook your head in disbelief after meeting my parents.   How I didn't feel vindicated so much as sorry for them, to be judged wanting by someone like you.

 I remember how excited I was to drive your sister's little Spree when you took me home to meet your family.  How I drove it in a parking lot to get the feel and ended up crashing into the grocery store, and how I was worried about the Spree but you were worried about my gashed open knees.  Years later you bought me a Honda scooter, with kneepads.

I remember our wedding, how young we both were. Those were in the pre-mega-wedding-industry days, and we were poor anyway. I had a $100 dress and my preparation was to wash my hair and put lipstick on. You stood at the altar and when I arrived and when you saw that I saw that you had accidentally shaved your sideburns off in your nervousness, we both had to suppress our laughter.  

 I remember our fist apartment with the awful yellow formica kitchen and that hideous seven foot couch with the prickly fabric that no one ever sat on.

I remember buying the waterbed and thinking it was just great.  I remember ten years later begging you - begging - to get rid of it. By then you'd decided the heater sucked too much electricity, and we were sleeping on a big bladder of freezing cold water that even 2 layers of sleeping bags could not insulate us from.

I remember bringing home Harpo, how you thought, because I had him in a box, that I found him.  You were enchanted utnil I 'fessed up that the place I'd found him was the mall pet store. 

I remember how mad you were when Harpo peed on your pillow. A week later he pooped there and we wondered what on earth was going on with him.  Soon enough, he let us know by climbing into your open suitcase while you were packing for another of your long business trips, and sitting there with his back to you.  This melted your puppy-proof heart and the two of you became good friends after that.  Cute is not a word you liked much, but the sight of you walking around the house after a long business trip with him absentmindedly tucked under your arm was, really, the cutest thing.

I remember the first time we had a dinner party, two other couples came over and you and the guys barbequed chicken.  I sawed into a breast that was raw on the inside with scorched sauce on the outside. We ended up eating corn on the cob, peas and strawberries  and drinking copious amounts of beer.

I remember when you told me of the grandfather who died before we met, how you feared the cruelty of the Parkinson's disease he succumbed to, and whether it was genetic. I remember promising I'd take care of you no matteer what, and how, if it comes to that,  it is a promise that I will keep.

 I remember the time you forgot to get me a birthday present. "That sure was a weird gift," you remarked about the Christmas-themed sweatshirt my mom sent. "At least she got me one," I said. We were in bed and you sat up quickly. "Did I not give you your gift?" you asked.  I thought it was odd you'd forget such a thing, until you brought it to me and realized, you'd bought me a vest that was identical to one I'd worn to work that day.  "Well, at least I got you something you like," you said, and we laughed about it and regifted it to your sister for Christmas.

I remember when we bought the house in Houston, mostly for the pool. I remember us standing in the huge living room and laughing that we were living in such a grand place. We high-fived each other but later had an argument when I realized you were serious about setting up a Nerf basketball court there. 

I remember how you really hated to spend money on clothes, and were truly indifferent about it until you took a sales job and had to go to a big meeting.  "What should I wear?" you asked me, standing in front of your mostly empty closet.  I shrugged and told you the truth - that the others would be wearing khaki linens and nice button downs and Italian shoes but if you felt OK in jean shorts and tennis shoes, you should go for it.   You asked me to go to the mall with you to 'get a few things' and though we only had a few hours, I'd been preparing for that moment over ten years of marriage, and got you a full wardrobe, shoes and a decent garmet bag AND to the airport on time.  You groused about the bill ($1200) but had the grace to call me from the meeting and tell me "You saved my ass, totally." 

I remember when I took an unusual day off from work to hang with my friend Sue by the pool for the day.   I woke to the sound of a hose being sprayed.  It was 6 a.m. and you were out on the back patio in your tight whiteys and tennis shoes, hosing pine needles and dog poop off the concrete before you left for work.  You weren't much for mushy words but you had your ways of letting me know how you felt. 

I remember how you always had such a hard time selling any house we'd lived in, which is how I knew you were happy with our life together. 

I remember how the drift began, how we started spending less and less time together and how for awhile it was disguised with the noise and motion of our busy lives.  

I remember how, when I left my high stress job, I tried to do something about the space between us, but was no match for the momentum of our falling away from each other. 

I remember one of my trips back home, how dad said "Why is he never with you? You tell him I said, he should be here." and how I had no answer for that, hating that he of all people could say the very thing I'd been thinking myself. 

I remember thinking, I can't go on like this but going on anyway, and wondering what you were thinking because I'd lost the knack of knowing without being told.

I remember  your quesiton, "Don't you want to be with me anymore?" and noting, even then, that you didn't ask if I still loved you; you knew that I did because why else would I be crying so hard?

I remember our friends' sorrow at the news, and the lack of surprise some of them showed, and how this stung me with sadness.

I remember the terrible guilt I felt, and so didn't protest at the accusations of my parents, their cold refusal to see the divorce as anything but my fault. 

 I remember all the tears  I shed, an ocean of them (and a tributary even now, as I write this) at the thought that I had not lived up to my promise to you, for better or worse. 

I remember how kind you were to me, without blame, when we moved on. 

I remember how you raced to get there in time when Harpo died, and how upset you were that I had to make that terrible trip to the vet alone.  I remember  how as we cried together I wondered if you felt, as I did, the loss of this link to our old life. 

I remember how you always asked me, How are you? And waited to hear the answer. How though we spoke with less and less frequency  you were nevertheless as interested as ever in what was happening with me, and how you clearly wanted for me only to be happy.

I remember deciding the best way to honor you, a man I still admire more than ever, was to forgive myself as you so clearly wanted me to, and find what joy there was for me.

I remember meeting your girlfriend, and how strange that felt.  

I remember listening to you tell me of her illness, the worry you showed, and how it soothed my  heart to see that you had, indeed, found love again.

I remember  the day you shared the  news of the impending child, the honesty with which you expressed your surprise and joy at the turn your life had taken.

I remember how happy I was when you wrote to say that you were stopping to visit on your way across the ocean to the place where you live now, a place where you will be married and raise a child with black hair but maybe your blue eyes, a place where you will live out a life that I will only hear rumors of.

I remember that, at that last dinner, I mentioned I'd finally thrown out Harpo's collar four years after he died,  and how you reached over to cover my hand when my voice wavered slightly. 

I remember it all and how could it be otherwise? You are the person I've spent more time with than any other.  I remember it all, with a smile at the man you were, and are.

I will always remember that you were once my love, and the kind of man you have chosen to be means that you will always be my friend.  It is a gift I will  try to be worthy of. 

Good luck to you, Clint.  Thank you for everything. I hope you have all the happiness you can stand, and then some.