Thirteen years ago today, I went on my first date with Ramón. And nine years ago, we got married.

Often, on special days like today, I marvel at how grief continues to warp my sense of time.

One part of me believes these memories were more recent—like, “There’s NO WAY it’s been thirteen years.” Yet another part of me feels even further removed—like, “Gosh, that was generations ago.” Each time these opposing feelings surface, I give grief a silent round of applause, fascinated by its ability to keep me guessing.

Today my experience is different yet again. The memories don’t feel more recent, nor do they feel longer ago. Instead, it’s as though our love existed in another dimension. And I don’t even know exactly what I mean by that. I simply struggle to comprehend that we were ever alive together in this world.

I don’t intend for that to sound heavy or even sorrowful. It’s just that this year, my grief looks a lot like surrealism.

Happy anniversary, Ramón no-middle-name Alvarado!

[And I send my love to all who are wrestling with that special brand of festive grief.]