Eulogy

A lyrical little item, I hope, drawn in part from my real experiences and in part from the losses of others, friends. A love song to my wife, and long may she be just that.

It always made me smile.

Thinking about my wife, I mean, and the way we... well, the way we started off together.

We were maybe a little older than most who meet and then marry for the first time, both of us twenty-seven, differing in chronological age by only a matter of weeks. By then, statistics tell us, most of us have married at least once, and had at least one child; and right smart of that number have divorced, many of those having already entered into second marriages.

Not so with us.

I was in a long-term relationship, one which began in middle school and ran until well past college. My lady-friend dropped the bomb on me one day, the I-need-some-space-for-a-few-months prelude to never seeing someone again.

I knew I wouldn't, and I didn't. I was twenty-five, alone, and a little sour.

My wife, on the other hand, was a victim of a drive-by boyfriend in college, one who helped himself to her virginity with pledges of undying love, and then broken it off, cleanly, so as to cause the least pain.

Oh, right.

Anyway, fate placed us together in a common small city, working with common friends; their associations with us led them to play mass-matchmaker.

We danced around one another at first, as will all new acquaintances, revealing bits and pieces as we spiraled around one another; the information grew more personal as our orbits began to synchronize.

We shared hopes and dreams and aspirations, likes and dislikes, rhythms and blues and what-all else, until finally...

Until finally, she allowed me to cook for her.

I was raised by people who love a kitchen, and she explained she could set water afire, given half a chance; her culinary specialties were mac-n-cheese and instant oatmeal. Frozen dinners, too, at a pinch.

My first attempt to place fresh bread and mixed vegetables and pork tenderloin before her caused her to swoon. That I also made a large from-scratch brownie, and *forced* her, twisted her arm into licking the bowl clean, did nothing to revive her.

Soon I was cooking for her every weekend; we were attending functions together with friends, spending quality time without them, and generally acting like a married couple.

All but the sex.

You see, I was determined to keep things as proper as I could. I knew the devastation of being dumped, and I knew she knew it too.

One evening, post-dinner, we were canoodling, passionately, innocently, stealing kisses and allowing the larceny to go unpunished; when she suddenly broke whatever kiss it was, and looked me in the eye.

"Do you find me attractive?" she asked, softly.

A smart-ass answer sprung to mind; I bit it back as I saw the look on her face. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known," I replied, quite honestly.

She smiled; then, "So why have you never," and here she placed my right hand over her left breast. I fought, as our kiss became passionate, not to squeeze like a mammogram.

The kiss broke; I said, "I've wanted to do that for so long, but I want to show you total respect. I mean, I know what you've told me," I said.

She leaned back, looked me in the eye, and smiled; then leaned forward and kissed me, no breasts involved. "You're so sweet," she said, as we separated.

I left her apartment shortly after that.

I know what you're thinking: she was throwing herself at you, idiot! Why didn't you boff her brains out?!

Not that easy.

We'd spoken of love, and I could have proclaimed my undying devotion on the spot; but I'd been burned before. I needed time to think, and re-evaluate everything. A quickie was NOT worth the long-term devastation, not to me, not that evening.

I saw her again the next day. All had apparently returned to normal.

It was like that for a few weeks.

One Saturday evening, much like the big one I've described, we were once again sitting, on my couch this time, smooching, talking, loving; when I felt the time was right.

"Dana," I said, very softly, "would you be my wife?"

She leaned her head back; she was grinning as she said, "Wondered what took you so long."

We kissed again, a brief peck. She said, "You know what today is, don't you?"

I shook my head.

"Thirty-two days ago yesterday, we had our little talk," she said, her eyes sparkling, a light smile playing over her lips.

"Yeah?" I said, grinning.

She leaned in a little closer. "The next day, I went and got a prescription for the Pill." She kissed me, and said, "Means I'm safe. Let's go make love."

We made a mad dash to the bedroom, giggling and shedding clothing the whole way.

I won't share our intimacies; let's just say I exploded into her with a force I'd never known, right after her third orgasm.

As we returned to Earth, her head on my chest, her fingers drifting lightly through my chest-hairs, she said, lazily, "This is sorta my first time."

I frowned. "What about..."

She lifted her face to mine. "The asshole? Yeah, I always made him wear a condom."

Realization broke. "So this is the first time..."

"This is the first time I've ever allowed a guy to put his little spermy-wormies in my pussy," she said softly, turning my face to hers.

We kissed, and I thought I could die a happy man right then and there.

++++++

I felt pressure on my right elbow.

I looked up, and to the right; my son had touched me.

"Time, Dad," he said.

I pulled myself together. I had to stand, in front of this throng, and eulogize my wife, my best friend, my lover, the woman with whom I'd made love almost every day for thirty years.

I was happy. We'd parted on the best of terms, she and I. No words left unspoken, no little acts of love left unperformed, neither violent arguments to forgive, nor vicious words to forget.

We were lovers and friends, partners and parents and grandparents.

And now I was going to tell the world what they already knew.

I loved her, and she loved me.

I had no regrets, and I felt free.