On New Year’s Eve of 1989, I met a man who was a little short, and a little wide, and a little anxious. He entered my party through the side door with a six pack of beer and a bright green coat. He asked me if this was Allison Mercer’s place or if he was at the wrong house. I was a little tipsy, I was a little distracted, I was a little obsessed with some other guy at the party, but I still remember that moment.
I officially met John Richards about half an hour before the ball dropped, introduced through about three layers of friends. We sat talking on Ally’s ugly blue futon. I don’t remember what we talked about for all that time, I don’t remember what we talked about in the hours after, and I don’t remember the name of the man I had come to that party intending to kiss at midnight. But when the clock struck twelve and everyone yelled “Happy New Year!” I leaned forward and I planted a big, gross, red lipstick smooch a little to the right of his mouth.
The next morning, I didn’t remember much, but I remembered that moment.
I forget what happened on the first date. I forget what happened on most of the dates. I do remember that John wasn’t very good at dating. He was going through college and I was going through jobs. He would call me on the payphone in the parking lot before he drove home. He would always forget my birthday. He would bring me ice cream on his way home if he knew I’d had a bad day. He would forget to call for days at a time when he was busy. He would argue with me when I got angry about it.
I remember that there were problems, and arguments, but I also remember that he had blue eyes and he had a great laugh. I remember that he had a way of talking that I could just listen for hours and never get bored. I remember that the more time I spent with him, the more moments I had.
There was the moment I let him stay at my apartment and he tried to make me pancakes to say thank you, and ended up paying for a new stove burner. There was the moment I asked him if he wanted to move in with me and his face lit up like I had never seen it. There was the moment when we were at a rooftop party and he stood on the edge of the roof and howled at the moon like a wolf, and I laughed until I cried. There was the moment when I met his parents, when I accidentally swore in front of his mother and she threw a wooden spoon at me. There was the moment when we went to Central Park in midsummer, and he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, and then we lay on the summer grass until it was dark out, just loving each other as much as we could.
I remember all of it. I remember each precious moment from those years as though it’s still happening right now. But I also remember when I realized how long it had been since there had been anything to remember. Time had faded us.
We moved into a new apartment when we were married, a more expensive one. John went to work every day early, and every day he came back late. I got pregnant four times, but I only had one baby. John couldn’t get to the hospital because of traffic and by the time he arrived, I was asleep and his mother was holding our little girl.
John was fired because his company was failing, so I started working again: as a waitress, a substitute teacher, an assistant. We sold the apartment, lived with John’s mother for ten days, and moved into a smaller apartment in the Bronx. Madison started school there.
In our first year living in the Bronx, John got HPV. I didn’t have HPV. We didn’t talk about it if we could avoid it. That February, when Madison was playing in her room, and John and I were on the couch watching the Food Network, he turned to me in the middle of a commercial break and asked me if I hated him.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “Why would you ask something like that?”
“You know why,” he said. There was a feeling in my stomach then, something strange that felt as though it had been stewing a while and was itching to come out.
“I don’t hate you, John,” I said.
Food Network was back on, but neither of us were watching it. We were staring at each other, and it struck me then how long it had been since I had looked my husband in the eyes.
“Well, I think I hate myself,” he said.
I don’t remember a single moment in eight years before it, but I sure as hell remember that one.
John went to therapy once a week, then once every two, and then he got a new job. Madison went to play with chalk on the sidewalk one day and came back in having learned three swear words. That same summer we moved upstate. We celebrated her eighth birthday four days after the move, and invited all the new neighbors.
When Madison was twelve, she dyed her hair blue with Kool-Aid without telling us. When John came home that day, and found Madison with patchy, grayish-blue hair and me standing over her looking panicked holding a shampoo bottle, he laughed for twenty minutes. Then he went back out to the store, and bought a pack of real hair dye, and helped Madison color her hair blue.
That was a moment to remember. That was the moment when the moments began to come back.
There were never as many as in those years in the city, when we went to parties and howled at the moon. There was never a moment to rival that one in Central Park in the summer, when I had just agreed to marry him. But there was a moment when he called me walking from his office to his car just to talk to me, and I was twenty again. There was a moment when he came home from work early one summer’s day with three water guns and a mischievous smile. There was the moment when Madison went south for college and he leaned on my shoulder and cried. I leaned into his ear and whispered, “I love you.” I said it so quietly he might not have heard, but I needed to say it more than I needed him to hear it. John Richards, I love you.
Life is long, and it’s boring, and it’s barely half over, so I only remember the moments. Everything I’ll never forget, every second with a million meanings: that’s what makes a life a life. Mine are so small, and so simple. They’re moments that happen every day to everyone. But to me, to John, to the little life we built and broke and built again, they’re enough.
I officially met John Richards about half an hour before the ball dropped, introduced through about three layers of friends. We sat talking on Ally’s ugly blue futon. I don’t remember what we talked about for all that time, I don’t remember what we talked about in the hours after, and I don’t remember the name of the man I had come to that party intending to kiss at midnight. But when the clock struck twelve and everyone yelled “Happy New Year!” I leaned forward and I planted a big, gross, red lipstick smooch a little to the right of his mouth.
The next morning, I didn’t remember much, but I remembered that moment.
I forget what happened on the first date. I forget what happened on most of the dates. I do remember that John wasn’t very good at dating. He was going through college and I was going through jobs. He would call me on the payphone in the parking lot before he drove home. He would always forget my birthday. He would bring me ice cream on his way home if he knew I’d had a bad day. He would forget to call for days at a time when he was busy. He would argue with me when I got angry about it.
I remember that there were problems, and arguments, but I also remember that he had blue eyes and he had a great laugh. I remember that he had a way of talking that I could just listen for hours and never get bored. I remember that the more time I spent with him, the more moments I had.
There was the moment I let him stay at my apartment and he tried to make me pancakes to say thank you, and ended up paying for a new stove burner. There was the moment I asked him if he wanted to move in with me and his face lit up like I had never seen it. There was the moment when we were at a rooftop party and he stood on the edge of the roof and howled at the moon like a wolf, and I laughed until I cried. There was the moment when I met his parents, when I accidentally swore in front of his mother and she threw a wooden spoon at me. There was the moment when we went to Central Park in midsummer, and he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, and then we lay on the summer grass until it was dark out, just loving each other as much as we could.
I remember all of it. I remember each precious moment from those years as though it’s still happening right now. But I also remember when I realized how long it had been since there had been anything to remember. Time had faded us.
We moved into a new apartment when we were married, a more expensive one. John went to work every day early, and every day he came back late. I got pregnant four times, but I only had one baby. John couldn’t get to the hospital because of traffic and by the time he arrived, I was asleep and his mother was holding our little girl.
John was fired because his company was failing, so I started working again: as a waitress, a substitute teacher, an assistant. We sold the apartment, lived with John’s mother for ten days, and moved into a smaller apartment in the Bronx. Madison started school there.
In our first year living in the Bronx, John got HPV. I didn’t have HPV. We didn’t talk about it if we could avoid it. That February, when Madison was playing in her room, and John and I were on the couch watching the Food Network, he turned to me in the middle of a commercial break and asked me if I hated him.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “Why would you ask something like that?”
“You know why,” he said. There was a feeling in my stomach then, something strange that felt as though it had been stewing a while and was itching to come out.
“I don’t hate you, John,” I said.
Food Network was back on, but neither of us were watching it. We were staring at each other, and it struck me then how long it had been since I had looked my husband in the eyes.
“Well, I think I hate myself,” he said.
I don’t remember a single moment in eight years before it, but I sure as hell remember that one.
John went to therapy once a week, then once every two, and then he got a new job. Madison went to play with chalk on the sidewalk one day and came back in having learned three swear words. That same summer we moved upstate. We celebrated her eighth birthday four days after the move, and invited all the new neighbors.
When Madison was twelve, she dyed her hair blue with Kool-Aid without telling us. When John came home that day, and found Madison with patchy, grayish-blue hair and me standing over her looking panicked holding a shampoo bottle, he laughed for twenty minutes. Then he went back out to the store, and bought a pack of real hair dye, and helped Madison color her hair blue.
That was a moment to remember. That was the moment when the moments began to come back.
There were never as many as in those years in the city, when we went to parties and howled at the moon. There was never a moment to rival that one in Central Park in the summer, when I had just agreed to marry him. But there was a moment when he called me walking from his office to his car just to talk to me, and I was twenty again. There was a moment when he came home from work early one summer’s day with three water guns and a mischievous smile. There was the moment when Madison went south for college and he leaned on my shoulder and cried. I leaned into his ear and whispered, “I love you.” I said it so quietly he might not have heard, but I needed to say it more than I needed him to hear it. John Richards, I love you.
Life is long, and it’s boring, and it’s barely half over, so I only remember the moments. Everything I’ll never forget, every second with a million meanings: that’s what makes a life a life. Mine are so small, and so simple. They’re moments that happen every day to everyone. But to me, to John, to the little life we built and broke and built again, they’re enough.