The gloves are still there, in the Honda’s hidden storage well beside the jumper cables. The gloves are leather and have a withered look, stiff and bent. They belonged to Dawn’s dad and I’ve kept them in the car since he died in 2008. It seems funny to never part with them. What is it with men and objects like that? My dad is that way too; he won’t let go of jackets or hoodies I’ve given him. It’s like we communicate our affection through worn objects.

It was our 21st wedding anniversary yesterday and I stopped by the store after my walk in the park around 6 am. Got Dawn the best bouquet of flowers and a card, arranged both in the corner of her office behind her desk on the antique trunk we got from her mom when she moved out last year. When she downsized her mom would have gone through the difficult exercise of reconciling all the things she could not take from her life with Dick. The objects have some value but it’s more the memory of that person that matters.

On our anniversary I always try to remember as much as I can about the time we got married. Mid April can be a glorious time of year in the Pacific Northwest. Or it can be rainy and cold. We got lucky that year.

Dawn and I opened our cards on the sofa after dinner. Hers had an impressionistic painting of a ship on the ocean and some Monet-like stars in an evening sky. She said it reminded her of the night we took that ferry from Amsterdam to Newcastle, and here’s to our new life together. By that I think she meant we are almost empty nesters. The house is quiet when we and the pets bed down, just the heater. That time of year it’s too cool to have the windows open overnight.

Few people will remember it’s your wedding anniversary. That’s for you and your partner, like so many other small things. There is so much life to live it’s better shared. Somehow the combined memory of places and possessions lifts their value. It’s as if we imbue ourselves on otherwise common things: like a day in the middle of the month each year, or the memory of a lost loved one we refuse to let go. Our common joy of these things makes them uncommon.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, journal writing, Nostalgia, pacific northwest