Grief often translates into numbers before we even realize it. Writing this, the math hits me: today would have been my 35th wedding anniversary.
On June 15, 1991, I married Enid at the Holsworthy Register Office—a building that no longer exists. My mother and Enid were the architects of the reception, laying out so much food that we were still eating the leftovers until the kids were well and truly fed up with it.
The visuals of that day are still vivid. Enid looked lovely in a pink-or-lilac suit, complete with a hat, while I stood beside her in a suit finished with a single dragon earring. Our guest list was a motley crew: there was my family, of course, and I’d invited the people I used to share a minibus with to get to employment training. I remember the awkward whispers—people asking who the "old woman" with the slightly grumpy expression was. It was Enid’s mother. I also remember my sister Nicky’s son getting a sharp nip from the dog, and the surreal detail of Enid’s father charging money to get to the reception.
The soundtrack to it all was delightfully singular; the only music we had was my *Blues Brothers* cassette tape, playing on a loop.
It is a day that remains etched in my memory. I feel the sadness that comes with the date, but I don’t lean into the "heavenly anniversary" sentimentality. I prefer to keep it quiet—this memory belongs entirely to me, and that feels like the right way to hold it.
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