Date Night

For a really long time, every other Friday night was date night. 

I would change the sheets on my bed because I love clean sheets, and carry on with the normal routine of my day until I would hear his car coming down our driveway. He always slammed his car door too hard, and the girls would say: Daddy is home!

He would walk in, briefcase in hand, pulling his tie loose and hang it on the knob of the closed.

I would kiss him, ask about his day, and tell him that was not the place for his tie. He would kiss me back and leave the tie there anyway.

We had dinner with the girls and go on a mad rush out of the door to drop Kiana at her Auntie's so that Taimane wouldn't be late for youth group.

Most of the time there was little or no money but regardless of that, every Friday fortnight was date night.

We would go to Movenpick in Mission Bay. He would get a double scoop of ice cream. I would say I didn't want any and end up eating half of his.

If we could go to the movies he would get popcorn and I would say I didn't want any, but I would end up eating half of his anyway.

When we were completely broke, we found a good spot overlooking the lights of the city and talked and made out like teenagers, and prayed for ourselves, for our plans, for our dreams, for our kids, for other people and their kids.

After we got home and the girls were in bed, I was the last one to have a shower, while he laid on my side of the bed to warm it up for me. 

And I would slip into his arms as if they were made just to hold me, to enclose me... and we'd love each other, after all, it was date night. 

Tonight is date night.

I changed the sheets because I love clean sheets. I tried to go about my day as normal, but everything is far from normal. There was no ice cream, no making out in the car, no talking about the girls or about the future, no praying together tonight, even though it's date night. 

I'm still the last one to have a shower, but my side of the bed is cold. As I split into this empty bed I feel like the loneliest of woman on earth. 

If grief is the price we pay for love, I must be the richest person for the price I am paying. But I don’t feel rich, I feel destitute.

Is love truly stronger than death? It feels like that death has won. 

So I cry with my head buried in his pillow and I long for the strong arms that were made just to hold me.