When Bob and I got married my mother cross-stitched a quote from Shakespeare along with our wedding date, framed it, and we hung it above our bed in our apartment, then our first condo, and eventually on the wall of our bedroom in our first house.
And that was how I would remember the date we got married.
Still, there were years where the two of us would note the actual date of our anniversary had passed without us noticing. Sure, we'd have celebrated in some fashion around that general time, but the specific date was often missed.
Dates. Days. I'm not great with them.
When I wrote the blog post about the three-year anniversary of Bob's death, I noted the day as Wednesday this year, all-the-while knowing in my head the date of his death was the 18th (something I've had to look up on occasion, if I'm being completely honest).
Days and dates.
I can tell you his two high school football numbers, the addresses of our college apartments from all five years, his cell phone number, social security number, my credit card numbers, the hour I was born, my childhood phone numbers, employee ID numbers from places I worked in college—but days and dates? I get them wrong. Often.
And it has nothing to do with how much I care, love, hurt, feel.
They don't stick in my patterns. The feelings surrounding them? The people? That sticks.