“How is it that you never married?”  If I had a nickel for every time I was asked that question…well, I wouldn’t be rich, but my pockets would be heavy.  For a time, I felt the question was catching me “off guard” and therefore I had to make an effort to be ready and “on guard” for it.  I would feel defensive, like I had strayed outside the lines so of course I would occasionally be required to explain the anomaly.  I came up with a breezy, packaged response that ‘tested’ well:

Let’s generally say that there are two main moments in life when one gets married.  1. Right after university.  2. When you reach 30 years old.  

For me, I didn’t marry my college boyfriend because <insert some kind of warning about not wanting it to be a downer, but…> he died from injuries sustained in a car accident.  (I know this phrasing sounds robotic and journalistic, but it has settled within me as the right cadence to get through the sentence.  I may ponder that more.)

And I didn’t marry my thirtieth birthday boyfriend because I had a sharp realization one day after four years, that if he proposed my heart wouldn’t leap anymore as it would have earlier in our relationship.  Rather, I felt anxious.  I saw that I had made compromises over time, that in isolation were fine, but had led me to a vision of our future together that included a version of me that I didn’t recognize.  He is a kind and loving soul, and I regret hurting him with my departure, but I don’t regret committing to finding my path.

Most often the questioner in this exchange is older than me.  A patriarch on a cruise ship this summer taking a break from his family interactions to have a quiet chat with a stranger.  A retired administrator sharing the beauty of the day on the golf course and curious about generational differences.  Typically these end with a ‘well good for you!’ comment which is kind of cool.

Sometimes the questioner is a first date.  These are awkward because he usually can’t let it go and repeats the question – “but no really, why?” This comes across as ‘I am worried that you may not be ‘dateable’ because no one has previously committed to you or you to them; there must be a serious flaw so I should bail on you now.’  Only once have I simply stood up and left a date, and it was while shaking my head at an exchange like this realizing I wasn’t the defensive one.

And sometimes the questioner is a kindred spirit, making himself or herself open to a genuine connection through deeper conversation than the weather and ‘what do you do?’  It is someone familiar with ‘Big Talk’ versus small talk. [Check out the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=deScHJGoVc8 ]. Gratefully I am encountering these people more and more.  It is these interactions that have fully confirmed that there is no need for a guard – up or down, there is no anomaly here, and I am on an awesome path.

But yesterday something unusual happened.  There was a follow-up question.  He simply asked, “What was his name?”

In a passage of time I can’t even describe because it was so fast, I felt the clerks in my mind’s file room were scurrying to be ready with memories and data, half amazed that the files had actually made it to the archives (which at one time we never thought would be possible) and half intrigued at what may happen when they were opened.  Then I answered, “His name was Tom.”

And just like that I find myself aware of a new phase of that relationship.  When he died I actively wrestled with the meanings of life, love, and purpose – perhaps a little earlier in life than most people.  Then after a few months I went off to graduate school, made new friends, and kept reminding myself that he just wanted me to be happy.  I spoke of Tom less and less as a way to reduce ‘boyfriend died’ as part of my social resume and a filter over seemingly every interaction.  Gradually I transitioned to a phase of remembering him with certain triggers, but they became fewer and fewer. I intentionally did not want to be defined by the loss, and though once unfathomable I now realize that I accomplished this.  But now having logged many more life moments, it feels like it is time to embrace it as a strength and a better known chapter in my story.

Would someone in similar shoes, but in this age of social media, be afforded the same chance to curate her identity while growing through the experience?  I don’t know.  I doubt it.  I expect her identity, and that of the one who died, would both be permanently searchable, with past and present easily blended and forever tied together.  Comparatively, my current online search yielded no photographs of him, and only a researcher at the newspaper was able to uncover the article about the accident and the obituary.  

So you will only know this if I tell you – I believe that love at first sight exists, because it first happened to me in summer 1989.  His name was Tom.