Each month I send anniversary cards to people. I do not remember everyone in town, all of the time, but I do try to give attention to at least some. This past December I penned a few that somehow got buried in a pile of Christmas cards, and only came up for air last week.  But when I went to mail the cards, albeit late, I realized that for two of them.... their husbands were gone. 

There are no words strong enough to bridge the cavernous ocean between the joyful well wishing around their anniversaries, and the empty side of the bed. 

Both couples had been together for decades, raised children, pursued careers, traveled, shared dreams, wept, forgiven,  prayed, walked hand in hand, sat on the porch to watch the birds. But now, life is different. With memories and conviction as supporting beams, these women now live in marriages that must grow without words, stay supple without touch. I am not sure what the separation is like for their husbands. I have it on good Authority that there are no tears. 

A friend whose wife died last year told me that it feels like Swiss cheese. He expected the cloth of their marriage to be torn in half when she left, and as long as he stayed away from the edge he could navigate the loss. But there are holes, some big, others less gaping, that surprise him and he stumbles down. Again.

No companion. No mother for their son. No shared supper conversations. No joint decisions. Half of the hugs for their child are gone. No banter on the way home from a play. But this past Christmas his son got twice as many Legos. 

In case he wants to grow up to be a civil engineer.