Evidently, there are a bunch of unwritten rules about entering into a romantic relationship after losing one’s spouse. Some say you’re supposed to wait a year. Even more pragmatic souls claim you should wait one month for every year you were married.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, November 26, 2014. I got up early and somehow found the courage to crawl into the closet under the stairs and pull out the boxes filled with Pat’s Christmas treasures. The ones filled with a lifetime of memories of thirty-three Christmases…

I had hoped to map out a route and itinerary that was as loose as the comfort waistband on my cargo shorts. Open to backroads and extended stays. Spontaneous adventure! But over time, promises were made. Places set in stone. Reservations booked.

It had been nine months since Pat had passed. I was still struggling to get my life back in focus. Clearly I had lost more than my wife and best friend. I had lost a big part of myself. If I still had a career I gave a shit about, I’m sure I could have easily buried myself in some semblance of “work.” I spent 30 years in advertising as a copywriter/producer and creative director. But back in 2009,

The life I embraced for 35 years ended on September 22, 2013, just a little after 5:00 AM.

That was when Patricia took her last fragile breath and surrendered to the cruel disease that robbed us both of the future we had expected to spend together.