It’s my wedding anniversary today, and although I remembered last week, today it completely slipped my mind. I remained completely oblivious until my mother-in-law ‘phoned to see how I was. I was pretty chipper actually, and so I think my chirpy tone took her a bit by surprise; but I’m not going to get all weepy and maudlin just because it’s the anniversary of something that no longer exists. You may think me callous and unfeeling, especially if you’re recently widowed, but by letting you know how I feel today, I hope that you will understand that it’s alright to forget a wedding anniversary, and that there shouldn’t be a burden upon you to constantly remind yourself of what you have lost, but simply to enjoy your life as it is now.

Charlie is no longer my husband and so our wedding anniversary is no longer a significant event in my life. In the early days I used to get upset every time May 20th came around, because I remembered what a joyous day it always was in our lives. It was a day when Charlie would buy me a special gift, or cook me a delicious meal, and when I would reflect upon just how lucky I was to be married to him. Such an occasion deserved to be remembered, but now it’s just another day in May. I can’t feel sad on such a gorgeous day; I want to be happy because my garden is looking beautiful, my goldfish are healthy and my vegetables are bursting out of the ground.

Rosie and Alice came home from school this afternoon and begged me to take them to the beach. They don’t know it’s my wedding anniversary, all they know is that it’s hot and they want to paddle in the sea. We decided to go to our nearest beach, which lies at the end of a tiny country lane; it’s perilously narrow and designed only for the brave - caravans, lorries, and old people who cannot reverse are not allowed to travel down its leafy loveliness, which is the best recommendation I know to go there.

The Devon lanes are at their most beautiful at the moment; high, green banks throng with red campion, bluebells and wild garlic; and as we drove along and brushed past the flowers we released a fragrance that was redolent of taking a stroll through Gerald Depardieu’s whiskers. The trees that topped the banks formed a verdant archway through which we passed, weaving up and down the sun-dappled lane until we got to our destination.

We spent a happy hour by the water’s edge, laughing and skimming stones. Alice ran up and down like a child of nature and Rosie sat by my side and sipped Lapsang Suchong. She likes to be close to me; she’s my chum and I love her with all my heart. And little Alice; well, she ran straight up to me, buried her head in my chest, and hugged me with all her might. It was just my two girls and me, on a sunny afternoon in May - a moment in time that is really worth remembering.

You cannot feel sad on such a day. Life is worth living at times like this; sunshine and happiness flow through me and memories of mourning and misery are left far behind.

And if you’re reading this and thinking that I’m a smug cow who has no idea how you feel - I do. I know what it’s like to live in a world of darkness; I know what it’s like to associate all the good things in life with someone who can no longer enjoy them; I know what it’s like to live a tainted life. But the misery does not last, and eventually joy and light flood back into your life. You learn to enjoy things for their own sake, and stop resenting feeling pleasure because of its association with the past.

I want to give a message of hope to all those hopeless people who visit this site. I want to shout from the rooftops that life can be good again. And I want to drive to Wanwell beach again on a sunny afternoon in May, because driving down that lane was a true taste of heaven. I felt that Charlie was smiling down on our little car as we brushed the past the bright, white garlic and swept under the vibrant green branches of the overhanging trees. Today was a joyous day - May 20th , anniversary of teaching my girls to skim stones.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.