Ten years ago, James drove me to a park downtown Kalamazoo where he had expected Christmas lights, decorations and festivities to be in full swing. Instead, we walked around a decorated but not lit park, and we stopped by a nativity that only had a few sheep and he shared portions of a speech he had practiced but now in nervousness forgot, and he proposed.

Ten years ago, in that park, we promised each other forever, both of us knowing there were no promises as to how it would go or where it would lead.

Today, we drove to the store. Unlike ten years ago, there is snow everywhere today, so much so that school was called off for the day and since we already had to be out for his weekly blood work, we decided to face the store before the holiday shoppers got too overwhelming. In all honesty, I had tried, several times, to convince him to stay home. Just yesterday, he was exhausted just trying to put the damn sheets back on the bed, a process that took him two hours to complete for all the breaks he had to take. But he was having none of it and insisted he go along. He’s always been the shopper, and even now, he feels like it’s a contribution he can make.

Unlike ten years ago, we didn’t walk hand in hand together. I convinced him after our brief stop at Menard’s that about did him in, that he would at least ride a cart in the grocery store. And so, he drove around the store as we got all the ingredients, snacks and meal prep items for the kids’ visit later next week. Instead of talking about our future together, instead of talking about our plans, we talked about what we needed, what we already had and what we would need to get later.

But just like the park, we stopped many times and just breathed together. I wrapped my arms around him in that damn cart and we both struggled to keep the tears at bay. At one point, I went ahead a couple aisles just so I could cry before he caught up to me.

He was whipped long before we were done, but he was a trooper and helped me finish the big shop. He reluctantly got in the snow covered car and let me unload the carts and put them in the corral. I sat, engine running, wipers pushing away the snow, for longer than was necessary to warm up the car, because I couldn’t drive for all my tears.

And when we got home, he went from passenger seat, to the bench in the mud room, to the seat at our counter and then finally to the bedroom to sleep.

We didn’t know ten years ago, the battle ahead of us. We knew there would be battles, and we knew life wouldn’t be easy- we both lost a parent in our early twenties- but we didn’t expect that our tenth year might very well be our last.

Today was a gift. After a week of struggling to be at school when all I want to do is be home with him, today was a day to do just that. And as hard as it is for both of us to navigate through this grief and this frustration and this anger, we both felt grateful for this day.

Ten years will never, not ever, be enough. But every day that I can spend with James is a good day. Today might just have been grocery shopping, and the walk in the park ten years ago might have felt like anything but spectacular, but we don’t need fanfare or photographers or even festive lights to make a day together a blessing. We know our days are numbered and we know they all count. Each and every one of them.