Ten Years

Why did I agree to this again?

I arrive fifteen minutes early, choosing a seat with my back to the restaurant’s main entrance. Your voice sounds in my mind, ‘if you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late!’ Just one of the many army sayings that you used to subject me to daily. Here I am, though, habitually early for a date that I don’t want to be on.

The restaurant is beautiful, it feels almost like a secret garden. I have a bit of time to myself to try and relax, a definite advantage to arriving first.

I smooth the skirt of my navy blue dress. Our youngest helped me pick it out. She’s leaving home this summer for basic training to become an Army Officer, like you. “Mom,” she said to me, “You deserve the chance at a little fun and happiness. Stop. Just stop with that face! Will you look at yourself? This colour suits you beautifully.”

I’ve known it for a while, but tonight I was faced with the full realization that our children are grown and don’t need me to look after them anymore. She’s taking care of me, I’m trying to let her but it isn’t easy to give up my established role.

“Mom. It’s been ten years, go and just let yourself have a fun evening. It doesn’t have to be the rest of forever, it’s just dinner,” she said as she practically pushed me out the door. Her boyfriend’s coming over and they will have the house to themselves. I’m sure she is looking forward to having me out of her hair, she’s been the only one I’ve had to look after for the past three years after the older two graduated and moved out. Only two more months and she will follow them.

Did she say ten years? How has it been ten years?

My empty ring finger itches and I absentmindedly rub where my rings used to sit. They’re put away now, my rings for the girls one day, along with your ring for our son. The koa wood and platinum are so unique, I thought he might like to have it. You chose that ring because of where we met. I took pity on you, the big strong man that you were, turning an unsightly shade of green on that snorkelling tour in Hawaii. You were used to being the toughest thing around and I had gravol in my bag. You and boats! Even thinking about it now still makes me smile. You could handle absolutely everything, that is, as long as it was on dry land.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t do this, that I would stop living in the past. Today that seems impossible, it feels like you’re everywhere. Our song came on the radio as I was on my way to this date. I was so startled, I swerved the car, almost driving off the edge of the road before narrowly recovering. I can’t recall the last time I heard that song.

The waiter comes by with a glass of water and a wine list. I open it quickly, only glancing at it. I’m about to ask for a glass of the house red when a line stands out.

“Do you really carry the 1992 Pelee Island Merlot?”

“Of course, Ma’am.” He offers to bring me a bottle.

I agree before wondering what I’m going to do with a whole bottle and how I will explain this to my hapless date. That’s the wine we served at our wedding. It was from the vineyard that was just down the road from where you grew up. I didn’t know anything about wine, legs or notes or bouquet, but you and your parents took me under your wing and assured me that we were making an excellent choice. I tasted a bit too many wines that afternoon, I was nervous about meeting your parents. I shouldn’t have been. They raised you, the kindest person I’ve ever known.

I miss you so terribly it aches. This date was a bad idea. In my heart, I’m transported to six months after I lost you, when I truly realized that you weren’t coming back. You survived two tours in Afghanistan just to die in a car accident. It wasn’t fair, it still isn’t. The first few months were numb, I was used to you being away so it didn’t feel all that real. Everyone must have thought I was so cold and heartless. It wasn’t until I was unpacking Christmas decorations that it hit home that you weren’t going to be there, that you were gone. Why do I feel like those wounds are fresh?

The waiter comes with the bottle, I taste the wine and nod to him to complete the pour. He asks if I’d like to wait a bit longer before I order. Maybe I wasn’t the only one not ready to look for a new relationship, my date is now five minutes late with no message.

The merlot is perfect. Your parents gifted us two cases and we drank a bottle on our anniversary every year. The last bottle I shared with our eldest the year she graduated university. We cried together and I told her stories about you. One of my dearest memories is the day she was born. I went into labour three weeks early and you came straight from a field exercise, arriving just in time with only minutes to spare like some kind of terrible romantic movie. Your hands were clean but the rest of you was so covered in dirt and grime that I didn’t think the nurse would let you hold our daughter. I remember the tears in your eyes, cradling your baby girl for the first time.

I am not successfully repressing these memories. Any minute my date will walk in and I’ll be terrible company, weeping into my wine. I have no regrets about our time together. We met by chance and I moved across the country to be an army wife. I didn’t understand what that was going to entail, I never thought it would come with such a sense of community.

My date is ten minutes late. I got dressed up for this, if I’m going to be stood up I will at least order something to eat and drink this whole bottle to myself. One of the kids will come and pick me up, I will probably never live this down! I think that I raised them well enough on my own after you were gone. They never hesitate to help when it's needed, even if it's something small like me and my bottle of merlot.

I’m so proud of our children. I know that you would be, too.

I’m lost in thought, savouring my wine, when I realize that the waiter is back standing beside the table. I quickly pick up the menu, “I’m sorry, I was a little too focused on this wine. I would like to order, can I start with a garden salad?” I ask.

“I’m sure that you can, but I’m not the waiter,” he says, and I jump at the sound of an achingly familiar voice.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally find the ability to speak. “How? How is this possible? How are you here?”

He looks the same as he always did. He lowers himself into the chair across from me, the brown eyes and easy smile I see every night in my dreams are directly in front of me. I don’t believe my legs would hold if I tried to stand. I'm not even sure that I'm breathing.

I want to touch his face to make sure that he's real. I reach out but pull back before my fingers can graze his chin. This can't be happening but I would give anything for it to be true. He leans forward, wraps his large hands around mine. They’re rough and warm, just as I remember.

“I’ve been waiting ten long years to see you again," he says, that voice piercing me through to my very core. "Now we have all the time in the world. Would you pour me a glass?”

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