Perfect moments

(originally written 11/20/06)

The way I figure it, people are lucky to have one or two perfect moments, fleeting, joyous pockets of life where if they close their eyes and think very hard, they can recall everything about it and relive it over and over again. I think it's what carries us through the hard times, the thought that there may be more of them coming.

Deb blessed me with several.

1. My nephew has just started playing the theme to "Forrest Gump" on the keyboard in my mother's living room. It's warm, because someone has accidentally kicked the air conditioning vent in the floor closed. I am standing in a grey jacket, a blue dress shirt and a yellow tie, none of which I would have picked out for myself but the guy at Penney's insists would look good on me. I am sweating, not just because of the heat, but because I am about to get married.
Then Deb steps in the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a blue veil. Her hair is up; she never has worn her hair up before with me. There are little flowers in her hair.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I begin to cry.
She walks up to me and wipes tears from my face.
"Don't you start," she whispers. "Or I'll lose it."
I cry through the whole ceremony. But I'll never forget that look she gave to me as she told me not to cry, and I doubt I'll ever see anything so beautiful again.

2. We're at Disney World on our honeymoon. The sun is beginning to set, and we're in front of the castle.
She starts walking. I grab her hand, pull her back to me, bend her back and give her a kiss.
"Whoa-ho-ho," she says.

3. It's the day before my birthday, Dec. 7, 2003, a Sunday. Deb and I are on the couch, in our pajamas, watching TV, and I've just made a decision.
I go upstairs and get the ring she picked out from the Kay Jewelers ad the week before. She didn't know she was picking it out; she just pointed to it and said, "This one would make a great engagement ring." It was something she did whenever there was a jewelry ad lying around. This time, I paid attention.
I was going to ask her to marry me the next day, the third anniversary of the day we met at Olive Garden, and we were going to go back to the restaurant to celebrate, but she had to work, so we were going to go that day. I was going to ask her in the restaurant to embarrass her, but on the couch I decided that embarrassing her was the last thing I wanted to do.
"Honey, can you come upstairs?" I call down.
When she gets there, I am already on one knee, holding the ring box.
She walks up to me, tears in her eyes, smiling. "Yes!"
"I didn't even ask the question!" I shout back.

4. It's 4 a.m., Sept. 10. Deb was moaning loudly in her hospital bed in the other room. She's semi-coherent. I help her get a drink of water. It's not easy, because she can't hold a glass, but she insists on trying. I eventually help her.
I sit up with her a while, then ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says no. I tell her I'm going back to bed.
As I walk down the hallway, I tell her, "Love you, sweetie."
I hear her half-mumble behind me, "Love you."
The rest of the day, when she speaks, she mumbles, and I can't make out what she says. She dies the next day.
That "Love you" is the last thing she said to me. It's an odd perfect moment, but I hold onto it.