I never grew up wanting to be a wife. Not that there was anything wrong with being a wife and not that I had a grievance against the population of wives, per se, but as far back as I can recall, it wasn't on my list of accomplishments. I wanted to be a novelist who lived above a patisserie in France. I wanted to lose myself in Monet's gardens. I talked about moving to be an actress in L.A. I perfected my accents in between classes. I pictured myself as a glamorous and mysterious adult that no one could quite pin down.
And then I met you. When I was nineteen and a college student and you instantly became the subject of the poems I laboriously churned out and then pinned against my bedroom walls. All of a sudden, a wife shot to the top of the list. I imagined yards of tulle and lace and flowers and music and smiles. I pictured children who looked like me but laughed like you. I looked years into the future and saw me waiting for you to get home from work with a smile on my face - just like in the black and white shows my father made me watch when I was little. And I was okay with it. Not just okay with it - I was thrilled by it. By the very idea of belonging to you forever.
And then our day came. Not just like that, of course. It took years of patiently waiting while you decided that commitment and marriage weren't four letter words. It took perseverance and compromise and uncertainty and faith - and even a little bit of blind luck. But we made it. And on June 16th, 2012 I walked down an aisle to you and promised you for better or worse. And I held your hand and took your name and we started on a journey together.
Not surprisingly, marriage wasn't at all what I thought it would be. It was a lot more mortgage and house repairs than roses and candlelight. But the part that did surprise me was how quickly I began to cherish my life as a wife. As Tom's Wife. I wasn't above a patisserie in a French village waxing poetic about Jean-Charles, but I was laughing without a care in the world in the middle of Aisle 5 while you danced your excitement because there was a sale on your favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry's.. And there was nowhere else I would rather have been because I was with you.
Now here I am seven months into losing you and I can make it some days without crying over the loss of my husband but now I am starting to mourn the death of The Wife in me. It's a part of this process that I couldn't have fathomed at the beginning because I was so focused on never agaon seeing the spark in your eyes or feeling the touch of your hands. I buried the loss of The Wife in me when I buried you and only now is she starting to come out to say, "Don't forget about me. I was lost, too."
Sometimes The Wife wakes me up in the middle of the night to recall the last list we made for our next trip to Home Depot.
She hovers just steps behind me as I walk this house, ready to pick up your socks that you always left in the foyer.
She still checks the DVR to make sure your favorite shows recorded. And then I painstakingly delete each one.
When we first started trying to have a baby, The Wife in me bought a onesie on sale. It was purple and it said Laker Girl, in honor of your favorite team. I remember showing it to you in excitement and at first your adamant protestations that she would in fact be a he but then your wide eyes wonder at staring at the smallness of the garment of clothing as you held it up. "She'll be in the WNBA." And that was that. I found that onesie in the storage room a couple of weeks ago. I folded it up and fully intended to put it in the back for Goodwill but I changed my mind at the last moment. I'm not quite there yet.
The Wife in me still urges to dial your number on the way home from work. Just to say hi. Just to say "I can't wait to see you."
I was good at being a wife. Your wife. I would've followed you anywhere. I don't quite know how to put The Wife to rest. I am starting to move forward and yet, by doing so I have to leave her behind. And I think my biggest fear is that by leaving her behind, I also am starting to leave you behind. How can I put her away and keep you with me? How do I silence her insistent and certain voice while keeping yours in my ears?
Sometimes when I go to my mom's house, I sneak downstairs and look at my wedding dress. I remember picking it out and knowing that it was The One. I think that is when The Wife in me was born. I can picture slipping into it on our wedding day and thinking of the metamorphosis that I was undergoing. I miss her. I miss you. I miss us.
Love,
Amanda
