That sunny day at Spanish Banks before we found out about the cancer was joyous, sublime and our step across the threshold of before and after. We had come back from our sojourn in Greece earlier in April. Peter has his fingers crossed in anticipation of the rocky road ahead. His sons, who just were a handful of years younger than me and my father who was just one year older than him.
Everyone had had their conniption fits about this union - but here we are and we don’t care. I am wearing the silver crucifix earrings with a female in the form of a cross - an ancient depiction of the sacred goddess - over 25,000 years old. His gift of many. I am also wearing the first piece of jewelry he made for me - an ivory disc with woods from all over the world: north, south, east and west.
Peter is wearing the engagement ring he had made for us in Paros. This, his most cherished island where he learned to carve marble; living like a monk with an old Greek named Yiorgo who kept a bachelor’s shack beside the marble quarry. It’s silver with a parian marble he picked from the beach. I still have both.
Peter taught me the world, by introducing me to Rhodes and I’ve been marinating in the Mediterranean ever since. The picture is a time released perfect photograph from his Pentax. Part of me is still there.
But that part of me that has ventured into my mid-60s - the age he was when he died - fills me with a sense of wonder about life and love, people we find who find us. I am convinced this is a truth for the heart - the part of my own heart - willing to be found again.