I stand in the garage feeding the paper shredder old tax returns — numbers committed to paper more than ten years ago that were so important back “then.”
Old addresses and jobs rise like ghosts from fading W-2s. I am amazed at how little we lived on for some of those years. Then I come across a student loan statement. The numbers were crushing.
I recall going to a lawyer named Kessler with you to make sure if we got married and one of us died, the survivor wouldn’t pay the debts of the dead.
I still remember your smile and charm at the oak table in the office. You were funny. And kind. And fearless.
Seeing the numbers in the autumn light of a room where we keep our cars, a room attached to a house that is thousands of square feet bigger than the apartment where I fell in love with you, I realize just how much we faced together.
It would’ve been easy to melt under the weight that our dreams laid on us financially. It would’ve been excusable to give up and walk away.
But we didn't.
Your laugh was too good to let go of. Your bright voice called forth too much in me to walk away from. (I knew that even then.)
The numbers said we’d never make it. We’d eat ramen in our old age and ride buses forever.
But with you, well, we said we didn’t care.
So now I’m shredding those statements. And we had a good time anyway.
