Right now, I am looking at a photo of us. From a lifetime ago. Stuck within the pages of an old book, the photo fell to the floor.

“It Had to Be You.” That familiar song struck a note with me soon after I met you. You didn’t know.

The two of us. Smiling. Young. Happy. Newly married. The girl with you—me—looks so young, blond hair, no wrinkles. Our lives stretched before us.

“Fascination” became our song. The first dance at our wedding.

I look at the photo with nostalgia and a sense of sadness for the early years. No more tears. Wistful.

I loved you long before you said, “I love you.” When you proposed, I answered “Yes” twice, in case you hadn’t heard me.

All of the life experiences I have encountered since that photo was taken!

I did not know, thankfully, that you and I would be together a mere eleven years. A short period of time. Too short.

And yet, “It Had to Be You.”

You received your doctorate. Took a prestigious job. We moved to Houston. Eventually, became parents of two girls. Lots of life changes in those early years. We took vacations. Saved to buy a house. Made new friends. New experiences. Talked about our future.

At a piano bar, we heard “Send in The Clowns.” That became our new song.

Often, we would get a sitter and return to the little piano bar. Always requesting our song.

But then your nagging back pain became significantly more than just a nuisance. After several medical visits, we received worrisome news on a Friday. More details to come on Monday.

After a very long, anxiety-ridden weekend, we were told you needed a liver biopsy. A chill went through my body, and I trembled. You looked stoic. I remember thinking, how thin he looks.

Thus, the ordeal began for both of us. The doctor walked in after the biopsy, and I remember clearly, you asked, “Do you have good news for us?”

His quiet answer, “I wish I did.”

I felt overwhelming panic. What did you feel? I still wonder, today, what went through your mind.

The biopsy results were not just bad news, but the worst possible diagnosis. The cancer was in your liver, but had spread from an unknown source in your body. A mystery.

I left you at the hospital, drove home, crying uncontrollably.

I attempted to pull myself together before seeing our daughters. Laura was seven, and Jane just five years old.

For four months, the days, weeks all seemed like a bad dream. Was it only four months? Or did time stand still?

Medical appointments, chemotherapy, radiation. Unrelenting pain for you. My fear and abject grief were unrelenting.

I remember early on in your diagnosis, I awoke in the morning, and it wasn’t until I looked at your gaunt body did I sense how sick you were. A pause. As the weeks went by, when morning came, I woke up with the realization that you were dying. Somehow, that seemed easier. Not for you.

I tried as best I could to prepare our daughters for your death. I was traveling an unknown, lonely road. You had always been there for me. What now? I was so young and so scared. Grief-stricken.

One evening I took Laura to dinner. “Daddy may not get better.” She paused, looked down, and then asked, “Can I have dessert, Mommy?” A distraction, I believe, from the enormity of my words.

You returned to the hospital a few days after Christmas. You left our home for the final time. Did you sense the finality?

On the Sunday before your death, the girls visited you. As they climbed on the hospital bed to hug you, I saw you wince with pain. I looked away. The memory is so vivid. They sang songs for you.

You died on a bitter cold January morning. You were thirty-seven.

On the day you died, I felt a profound sense of fatigue, grateful to be with you at the end of your too short life. I left the hospital, and prayed for the right words to tell our girls.

Daddy died today.

Our daughters reacted in different ways. Laura went to a friend’s house. Jane sat in her room, and looked out the window. I made phone calls. Loving friends by my side.

The three of us began our new lives. Our new reality. Without you.

A new song became my mantra, “Can’t Smile without You.” I couldn’t smile. I cried.

How does grief change through the years? Through the healing process? I think as new memories are made, grief makes room for life experiences. Memories remain, but the grief is not so raw. Along with a few steps forward, there are always unpleasant steps backward.

Today, that young, blond girl in the photo has gray hair. (Of course, you have not aged.) I am older. A bit wiser. Pleased with my accomplishments. Can let go of my early blunders. Even laugh at many of them.

Proud of our daughters and who they have become. You would be proud too.

I am happily married. Thirty years, now. We are soulmates and hope to grow old together. Yet we are aware that there are no guarantees. 

We have both suffered loss, but also healing.

Our song, from The Phantom of the Opera, “All I Ask of You.”

“Share with me one love, one lifetime.”

You would approve of my life today. Yes, I married another engineer! A tender loving man. Smart, witty.

Our daughters were in college when we married. They joke that he missed their bratty teen years.

Each year on Father’s Day, they pay tribute to you and to their stepfather. Now there are five grandchildren. So many new beginnings.

All of the important songs from my earlier life have remained with me.

They still touch my soul. I pause each time I hear one of them, and remember.

So, I look at our photo one more time, and slide it back into the book.

-Rosanne Trost

Rosanne Trost is a retired registered nurse. After retirement, she realized her passion for creative writing. Her work has appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Amsterdam Quarterly, Breaking Sad, and Cell2Soul.