52

Fifty-two years ago today, Sandy was born at Seattle General Hospital. The hospital is no longer there, but was just half a block fom the landmark Seattle Central Library, which seems fitting

It was twenty-nine and a half years later that I met Sandy, just after she'd moved back to Seattle from Vancouver, Washington. She'd lived here occasionally as a child and as a young adult, and then except for six months in California was here for the last 21 years of her life. She was proud to be a Seattle native, especially considering how many in our circles originally came from some other part of the country. 

This city is my chosen home. For Sandy, it was a combination of native and chosen home. She talked of leaving sometimes, but only when she grew tired of working and wanted to convince me that we could live more cheaply in Mexico. I don't think she'd ever have made the pitch if she thought I might be willing to leave. She enjoyed the six months she lived in Santa Barbara, and we talked sometimes about retiring there, but we knew we'd never be able to afford it. Seattle was her home, and it remains mine.

More specifically, this house remains my home, and I've no intention of moving. Together, we transformed the back yard in to an oasis and the interior of the house into a comfortable, welcoming space. Both the house and the yard communicate our priorities, our interests, and our attachment to this place.

I received a call this morning from a real estate company wanting to know if I was interested in selling my property on 15th Avenue. I felt no need to be rude, but the answer was easy. No. Not as long as it continues to speak of Sandy.

Happy birthday, Sandy. I'm glad you grew up to be the
woman I loved and continue to love.

I've been frustrated this year, wanting to get her birthday presents. Big things she'd wanted and smaller things I come across that make me think of her. It's not just around her birthday that I have to remind myself that things I buy for her will actually just become mine. But it's more poignant somehow. So it's good that I can go kayaking — something for her, something for me, something we often did to commemorate birthdays.

I was at Gasworks Park a couple of days ago, a brief stop on a long bike ride, and remembered our kayaking adventure last summer. We paddled farther up the lake than we'd ever gone before. Eventually, I shook my head clear, realizing that I'd been the only person in the boat. She was there; my memory is clearly of us being together even as I remember the oddness of setting off in a single kayak instead of a double. And then today, as I thought about what I need to throw in the backpack, I recalled that we did sudoku last year on the way down — and once again, I had to focus to remember that I was the only one who paid the bus fare or wrote in the sudoku book. Her presence was so strong that I remember her being there.

Will she be with me today? Kayaking in Lake Union, enjoying her city and the feel of the wind? Will my memories of today be of kayaking alone, or will I build yet another memory of our time together? I don't know, and won't know until I get there and see whether she shows up. I suspect she will, at least for a little while. It's her birthday, after all, and she loves the water.