Last night I had nightmare after nightmare about my husband dying. It was horrible. I'd wake up from one dream with my heart in my stomach, then full of relief that it was a dream, only to fall back asleep and dream another one. Ugh. In one of the dreams he was being chased by a buffalo-dinosaur thing. When my son woke up, he said he had a "pile of bad dreams" so I think maybe it was something in the air or something we ate.
In thinking about it this morning, I imagined our life span together. You must understand, I met my husband when we were 12 years old. We fell in love at age 15 and have grown together since then. We've been together over half our lives. I picture us being 60 years old and going on sweet honeymoons, 75 years old and sitting in the movie theater, 99 years old and holding great-grandbabies and feeling 33 on the inside.
We got married when we were 21, near the end of our junior year of university. We married, had a party at my grandma's house, and then moved into married student housing. We lived there for a little over a year. After we graduated we bought our house and have been here since. Even though we've lived here for 11 years, and only lived there for 1, my memories of that apartment are so vivid. It's as if we spent a lifetime there. Such sweetness.
I remember borrowing movies from the library a couple buildings over. Walking to the swing-set across the field. Cooking spaghetti dinners with candlelight to greet him as he came home from work. Having our friends over and feeling very grown up. Watering my new houseplant in the sill of that huge window.
I remember a lot.