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I can't remember where I read the phrase "Life isn't about counting the moments, it's about making the moments count!"

It might have been on some bumper sticker or glitter graphic online, or maybe it was one of those quotes that get wrongly attributed to someone like JFK or Plato.

Either way, where I read it, or who said it doesn't matter to me.

The only thing that does, is the message, because it's one I happen to agree with.

Nothing lasts forever, which is equally as comforting as it is unsettling. It's just the way of things.

The end, the last good or bad time, always arrives at some point. Sometimes it announces itself.

Sometimes it creeps in like a thief in the night, but either way, the end will come, this we know.

What we don't know is when.

So, just like that phrase I know I read somewhere, I've always tried to enjoy myself as much as possible when I can, while I can.

Just like I told you when we met.

I truly believed, still do, that you and I could have lasted forever though.

Or however many years in a lifelong relationship count as forever.

If only we met before you had the kids that you later prioritized over your own happiness, which just made me care about you even more.

If only.

Two memories of you, of us, stand out as examples of that phrase.


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The first is the night we both said I love you.

We'd only been together two months.

It was the second week of April, chillier than usual after an evening of showers, past midnight when you called me and asked me if I could get out of bed and out of the house without disturbing anybody.

On your way home after a work dinner, you called me.

"I missed you. I want to see that pretty little face and fall asleep with it buried in my neck."

"I can meet you at the top of the hill in ten mintes," I replied.

My favorite place to fall asleep was in your arms.

Five minutes later I walked out into the night, wind blowing through my hair, fire coursing through my veins.

Spring was supposed to be here, but the night was colder than I anticipated and felt closer to the one in February when we met, with the vicious chill in the air and the rain washed streets.

I arrived with minutes to spare at our meeting point, shivering as I waited in front of an old restaurant styled like a Medieval tavern.

I breathed in, enjoying the night and the silence.

There wasn't a sound to be heard, save for the resaurant's sign hanging above me, creaking on its hinges in the wind.

Then your car swung around the corner, a flash of blue against the backdrop of an inky sky, like a shark in the night sea.

I was barely seated when you leaned across and our lips met.

When we finally broke apart for breath you simply repeated "I missed you" before we drove the rest of the way in silence, my head on your shoulder.

A couple of hours later, lying together with your fingers running through my long blonde hair as they always did before falling asleep - your version of a lullaby that always cradled me into a contented slumber - you asked me if I was in love with you.

I was terrified.

Terrified that you weren't yet.

That maybe it was too soon for me to tell you the truth, that yes, I really was already in love.

But I did it anyway.

Your expression when I said that, and your own confession about already knowing I was the love of your life is something I replay in my mind on anniversaries even now.

Including the anniversary of your death.

The sweetness of that moment can never be soured.

To this day, the month of April and its showers still have a special place in my heart.

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"Life's too short to drink the bad quality stuff just because it's cheap," you said with a laugh tossing back the brand name vodka and pineapple before kissing me.

You were right, it did taste better than the off brand stuff.

But maybe that was just because I tasted it from your lips.

I'll never forget that day.

A still, heavy summer afternoon. Warm golden rays from the sun spilling over our naked, tangled limbs as we lay on the clean sheets. A dreamy, golden haze of day drinking and syrupy slow and sensual sex that made my spine arch and melt like a candle.

"It will be like this every day soon," you whispered in my ear as you lay pressed against my back, one hand stroking my neck.

We had plans.

Plans to move in together officially, and spend every day that was left of that summer, in the same delicious way we'd spent that Saturday.

We had no idea of the storm that awaited us, just round the corner.

It barelled in like a tornado, tearing down the happiness we'd built in the past year and leaving only debris and broken hearts in its wake.

You made the decision that benefitted your kids.

I could never blame you for that.

I knew you were hurting as much as I was.

There was nothing we could do but accept the inevitable.

The end had arrived with the end of summer.

To this day, the second week of October still feels like a time for grieving.

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non-fiction.

This is about my first love. We wanted forever together but didn't get it, and before we could reconnect again, he died. Our time together nevertheless was beautiful and we truly loved each other so much, it's a great example of the phrase I referenced at the start of this and the "quality over quantity" one.