July 31st is the anniversary of our first date that lasted until August 2nd. It was epic. On that last day of July/the first day of our first date, there was a Blue Moon. I did not even know what a Blue Moon was until I looked it up. When we met that morning, I told E that a Blue Moon is the name of the second full moon that occurs within the same month.

Today, on July 31st, there is a Super Moon. It is a moon at its fullest, and its orbit is closest (perigee) to Earth. I do not yet know what any of this means.

The moon always seemed to follow us, in its newness or hiddenness, its waning and waxing. It somehow tracked with our relationship’s ups and downs and sideways moments. It was a reference point. In fact, in the beginning, he wrote me a poem about how I was like the moon in how I had an affect on him. It was a poem that came to him while he was on a run. He mailed it to me along with a letter. I have looked for that poem for years. It was on a small slip of paper, and I used it as a bookmark, almost always marking my place in a book he recommended I read. When I was preparing to move to Wimberley where we would make our home together, I am sure I put the poem someplace special for safe keeping. I have looked for it intermittently over the years during various reorganizations and cleaning of our home. Now, more than ever, I wish I had his words on that slip of paper. I wish I could turn them over in my mind and heart and suck the marrow out of his words that he wrote when we were new to each other.

I have thought of and continue to think of the poem so often. It was not a long poem, maybe six lines and perfectly succinct, each word meaningful and chosen. I could have memorized it but never actually did. Maybe it was too hard for me to receive that kind of love, that kind of open gesture of witnessing my reflection through his eyes. Maybe I was guarded and unable to truly take in that I might cause such a heart opening in another being. I could take it in now. I could read it every day forward and backward. But, the poem about me and the moon is lost. Somehow, I hold its sentiment in my heart. Maybe its lostness points to the ways images, art, and poems come as close as we possibly can to saying what it is to feel something deeply, to love. Perhaps its lostness is the last unwritten line of his poem about how love is ineffable. Still, I wish I could read it again now and know how I am like the moon for him.

I hope I am still the moon for you, Sweet Man. I hope I have held up my end of our agreements and understandings. I love you.

The moon, particularly our first full moon together, seemed so apart of our union. Over time and through our time here together, we both felt the Blue Moon of our first date was something rare and auspicious, lucky and magic. Not much about how things are today feel lucky or magic. And yet, there are moments when the ineffable comes through, the lost poems last line is unspoken, things get fuzzy and dreamy, and he is here with me. I am waiting to see if today’s Super Moon tells me something more.

Are you closer to the Earth today like this Super Moon? I lit candles and made coffee. I drank it in our bed like we always did, and I wished you goodness and light and love this morning. Were you there with me? I felt you for a brief moment, too brief. Half an hour and coffee together each morning was never enough for either of us. I loved when we stayed longer, when one of us persuaded the other to stay for a few more minutes, even when it made us rush to the places we were obligated to be. I love you. I miss you.

The figs on my tree are turning brown and shriveling, and leaves suffering in the drought are dropping from their limbs. I suppose I could water the tree a little today. I am not sure if I will. The figs are for the birds. If the birds also reject them, the fruit like the leaves will fall to the ground and become dirt again.

I will not eat them without you, not this year, maybe not ever.

The images and memories of our first date bring joy and comfort; and they bring heartache and pain. It is funny that I can think of the times when we struggled and clashed or were unkind with one another, and I feel less intensely about them and even a comfort in our repair and resilience. But the best of times haunt me because they are over. Losing that joy, losing the best thing, and the time with you here are the biggest loss.

What do I do now that the best is over? You were the best thing that ever happened, that I ever chose for myself. Thank you for choosing me back.

On that first July 31st together, we greeted each other with a hug at eight in the morning when he arrived at the apartment where I had stayed the night before. After that embrace, we took our time in each other’s presence. There was only time and unfolding. It was not exactly awkward, we were too old and had nothing to lose for that kind of discomfort with another person. It was a slow dance together trying to figure out each other’s patterns and pace, expectations and concerns.

We did not hold hands climbing Enchanted Rock a few hours later that same morning. I could feel him wanting to reach out and help me up the steep inclines. I wanted to do it on my own so that if we were going to hold hands it would be only about holding hands. After twelve hours or more together on that first day, we finally did hold hands, exhausted from our adventures together and sitting next to each other on a couch at the place where we were staying.

I remember going to Luckenbach with him late in the afternoon on our last full day of our first date in the Hill Country together. He ordered us two Lone Stars at the bar/post office counter. There were musicians circled up playing songs and singing. It was hot as hell, kind of like it is now. We drank our beer, listened to music and birds and people. We held hands and sweated in the heat.

You bought me my first Lone Star. I am so grateful to have shared that beer with you in the heat in Luckenbach. You took me to the coolest, oldest, crustiest hole-in-the-wall bars. Remember the one with swinging doors in Cedral, Mexico? We were the only white people, non-locals, and I was the only woman in that bar. It was so fun to be in the middle of wherever we were, soaking up the people, places, and landscapes with you. I love that on that first date we went to The Devil’s Backbone Bar and drove through Wimberley, our town that we call home. We had Lone Stars at the Backbone Bar too, now that I am thinking of it. I love so much about the way we made a life together. I love you. I miss you.

The next day, our date and time together was over. The time we had stretched, shrank back to its linear size. Work and children called us to our respective residences. We reluctantly parted ways. (We never stopped reluctantly separating. It was always hard to let go of each other.) A few days later, my small wallet that I could carry on my wrist arrived in the mail with a note from Cindi in Luckenbach who had found it hanging on the inside of the bathroom stall. I had not even noticed it was missing. I had my purse and larger wallet with my credit cards, but for easiness I had been carrying the small wallet with my license and cash while we were out and about. It had been lost, and its absence had gone entirely unnoticed in my enamored post-first date state.

I lose things, sometimes important things and sometimes not so important things. I lost his poem to me about the moon, which feels so important. Losing my wallet did not and does not feel all that important. I am a loser of my coffee, keys, shoes, and phone on a daily basis. I am also a finder. I find lost things that family members lose. I love to find lost things, and I am really good at it. Once, Edmond could not find his logbook, the book a pilot uses to record all of their flights. He looked everywhere for it for more than a year. I kept feeling like it was up in the attic in a bin. He looked up there at least twice. I was certain it was there, and I directed him to a particular bin. He looked again, and found it.

I am so sorry you did not get to fly airplanes again. Your renewed pilots license arrived on your birthday, sixteen days after you died. You did all the work, took all the courses online to stay current. You did not even get to do the funnest part, fly the plane. I am so sorry about that and so many other things you are not doing. I like to think that you are flying now.

On Friday, I walked with a friend, got my oil changed, and spent the day with Ellie in San Marcos. It was a big day. When we were checking out at a clothing store, I suddenly realized I had lost a pendant that was on my necklace. It was a textured fingerprint made from Edmond’s hand postmortem. The cremation funeral home made ink prints of his fingertips (which I have) and created the pendants that I purchased for us. I had six of them made, one for me and each of our children. I had given them each a charm with the understanding that it was precious and important, but that if something ever happened to it, if it was lost or ruined in some way, it was just a thing. It was not their dad. It was not Edmond, but a reminder of him and all the ways he has touched our lives and we touched his. Being a finder, I backtracked through my day in San Marcos before we left to head home. Even after retracing my steps through Wimberley’s town square where I had been earlier in the morning, I still did not find the pendant. I was not a successful finder that day. I reminded myself exactly what I offered my children, that it was just a charm on a necklace, a place holder for memories not the memory itself or man himself.

I do not need the thing back. I want him back, and that is not possible. It was the losing of another anything that felt so bad. It still feels bad to have lost one more thing. Somehow not eating the figs, instead letting them rot on the tree, go to the birds, or fall to the ground feels right. There is a lingering in the slow death of the figs that is better than suddenly losing him or the fingerprint pendant. I wonder if I will ever again be able to spend time in Luckenbach, or any of the first places we spent time together.

I love you. I miss you. I am ever grateful for our first date of three days. Thank you for holding my hand so often. I love you. I hope you enjoy a Lone Star tonight or fly through the stars, past the Super Moon, and into my dreams again.

Lost Moons and Lone Stars