|Sunset through clouds|
And then she died. All those birth dates. And other things. Trips we took together. Dates we went on. I have memories of all—I think all of them—but stuff is missing here and there. This past Thanksgiving as a family we decided to go to a restaurant for dinner. It was a good choice. They had an outdoor grill with smoked oysters on the half-shell. I introduced my older son, now 14, to the delight of oysters, a rare treat for me now. I started to tell him about the first time I had raw oysters—with his mother. I like sharing happy stories of their mother when I can. I told him, it was a weekend getaway 17 years ago to Ocean City, Maryland. It was winter and we had just started dating. Or was it the year after that? In Rehoboth? I couldn’t remember. It’s a small detail but I really wish I knew. In telling the story to my son he now knows that happened in 1999 in Ocean City. I'm pretty sure about it. Seven years ago I would have asked Amy to confirm the details of this minor family history footnote but I didn’t need to then and I can’t now.
It’s a small thing. But it gnaws a little. I wish I had written more things down. Journaled consistently. Something.