Mom's glass

It's not much of a glass, really. The shape? A truncated cone. A bit more tapered than a rocks glass. It once had gold lettering that said 1st A. Mom worked for First American and this was a gift from them to her, and then from her to me. The gold lettering rapidly wore off, but that's the mark of anything cherished. You wear it, you use it, and you eventually wear away all of its distinctive marks. But, to me, it was Mom's glass.

I thought that eleven years down the road Mom's things would somehow lose meaning, but they are as vivid to me as ever. I'll already miss that glass—a dishwasher mishap—and realize that there's an answer to the question I've long pondered. When do you finally stop missing someone? The answer: Never.

Silver

I realized this afternoon that today would have been my 25th wedding anniversary. That I realized only this afternoon is telling. My parents, for example, marked the event with a party (a surprise, actually, organized by my brother and sister; I was already in Italy and had to miss it). And I imagine that's what most people wish for: the silver anniversary.

I can't say I miss celebrating the anniversary, really, but I do miss the concept: a quarter of a century with someone, day after day. For the time being, I'm celebrating the months with someone I love profoundly. Whether we'll be lucky enough to celebrate our silver is a story still unfolding, but we've already had 25 nights, 25 fortnights, 25 weeks.

To you, my love.