reflection – Gather by Image

Fifteen Years since we said I do

It’s so hard to believe that today is 15 years since we got married. Fifteen years since the best day at Veramar Vineyard when, surrounded by friends and family, I married my best friend.

Even harder to believe I’ve now been a widow longer than I was a wife. I’m fortunate we knew each other and were friends for so long before we got married, because it gives me so many more stories for the kids, so many more years we had together. And still too few.

To love and have been loved so completely is a wonderous thing.

I know, without a doubt, if I had it to do again, I would not change a thing.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

“To love and be loved was more than could ever be expected. More than enough for a thousand ordinary lifetimes. She did not understand that until then.”

Chris Whitaker, All the Colors of the Dark

Eight years

Today was the last day of school for our kiddos. When I first saw the 2024-2025 school year calendar, that jumped off the page at me. The date always does. Today is also eight years from the day Tim took his last breaths.

My oldest had several more conversations with me this year about today’s date, and June as a whole, with the memories (and lack), Father’s day, and all the feels around this month. My youngest had a lot of feels around it this year as well. I was so glad they both talked openly with me about their feelings.

But I admit, its still hard for me to sit in it. My truest nature wants to fix it for them, wants to make them feel better. Even though I know I can’t. When it comes up, I know all I can do is listen, and sit in the silence, hear what is unsaid, and validate how they are feeling. My dad didn’t die when I was 5, 4 or not yet 1. I can’t pretend to know exactly how they feel. But I can imagine. And I can hold space for what I don’t precisely know.

A theme I observed in conversations with the kids about this was a feeling of wanting to talk about it sometimes, of wanting to “be asked how I am doing,” to have the suck-y feelings validated. I’ve noticed this in my dealings with adults about Tim’s death. There is often a sense of “relief” that the kids have fewer memories and would have correspondingly fewer painful/grief feelings. I do not think this is accurate. Grieving the life you never got to have is real too. I also know the language and the communication surrounding Tim’s death is difficult in the best scenarios, but I am beginning to understand just how avoidant many people are with the subject of death, as though it might be contagious.

There’s also a thing I’ve heard repeatedly about how difficult the second year after a traumatic loss is… particularly as others start moving on, and reach out less… I think that’s how it is for the kids now.. as they come into ages where they want to process their grief, they are expected to be over it by now, or worse, for it to be insignificant for them.

The best I could do was to share with them the experiences I have with people expecting me to be “over it.” I also told them that they have an experience most won’t have for many, many years, and so it can be hard for others to know how to imagine, empathize, or relate.

There are still many moments that take my breath away, just how much I miss him. I’d say the most notable shift this year is in the questions from and processing with the kids.

Photo below is me and his legacies with the DC united “Tim Gaige forever a fan” brick, in between games at this year’s Tim Gaige Memorial Sporting Events. I can hardly imagine a thing Tim would have loved more than walk-between back-to-back sporting events.

” You’re the loss of my life.” Taylor Swift

Now “medical journal” rare

Dear Tim,

I know you will remember when Annabelle was born. I had multiple bags of water and when one came out “intact” the nurse was excited about it, saying it was rare and your entire face lit up and you said “like medical journal rare?!”

Poor nurse had to let you down easily saying, “Well, no… not quite medical journal rare. But I don’t see it everyday.” I saw on your face as you smiled at me that you were trying not to be disappointed by that.

Throughout your entire ordeal in the hospital, it felt like everything was unprecedented. I heard “perfect storm” many times, and many medical professionals weighing in, looking at options, coming up with the next course of action. I remember saying to you and hoping you could hear me, “Tim, you are finally medical journal rare. Pull through this, and you will be in the medical journals.” I may have even written that to some of the staff I wrote thank yous to after we left the hospital.

In March of 2019, I got an email from the associate director of ECMO at Inova Fairfax Medical Center (who I remembered) saying:

The ECMO team is interested in trying to publish data regarding the infections your husband faced while being on ECMO. My hope is that centers that do not see as many cases as us learn from our experience. The data does not contain any identifying materials, however I wanted to have your consent prior to proceeding.

Well, I couldn’t imagine a thing you’d love more, so of course I gave my consent. I asked for a copy when it was published, but when I didn’t hear again, I assumed it just didn’t work out.

Fairly recently (it has taken me some time to get this down) your friend Melissa, reached out to me. She is an infectious disease physician, and came to see you in the hospital. She said she was doing a literature search at work and found Tim’s paper! I said “what?”

You finally made it… a scientific paper about your infections.

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2211753919300491

I’m so sorry you are not here to read it. I admit, for me, it’s a heavy read. Brings me right back to those days. But I am ever so grateful to Melissa for finding it for me, for your parents and friends, and someday for the kiddos. If the facts of your case help save even one life…

Goodness, I miss you, my love. Sleep well.

Always, MaryBeth

“He said he’d love me all his life, But that life was too short” ~ Taylor Swift, I can do it with a broken heart

A letter to Tim at Seven years

Dear Tim,

It’s hard to imagine that it’s been 7 years today since I watched you take your last breaths.

Yesterday my bestie asked me what my plan was for today. I rattled off that I was leaving work early for one of the kid’s end of year party, but I also had to stalk a retailer who sold me a product without all the parts and I am pissed and I need it for Friday and I was so worked up I thought “why are you asking me about my plans for a random Tuesday?”

Then I remembered.

I didn’t forget. When I saw the date of that particular school party I signed up because I liked the reason to work a half day on that day… I never quite know how today will hit, or what to expect.

I remember at your bedside when I knew it was the day, I told you I wouldn’t make a big deal of this date, because you would not have wanted that. Since then, I’ve looked back and smiled because you know me. I remember dates. It’s who I am. And I know you would not fault me for that. But to stay close to my word, I’ve never made a big deal of this date with the kids. Your birthday or father’s day will be celebrated, but this date I try to slip under the radar for the kids. But I can’t change who I am, and this date will always jump off the page for me. Like all things in this life without you, I find the best compromise.

I did something different this year though with your #1 girl. She is at a tough age. You adored her and yet she challenged you. I can only imagine the challenges she’d have brought you (too) as a pre-teen-almost-teenager. In preparation for this time of year I spoke with her pre-mother’s day and said I was going to be very real with her – this time of year is challenging for me. If I am shorter fused, if I get set off and yell at her more quickly and easily this time of year I wanted her to know its not her. I wanted her to know why. This turned into both of us crying, and both of us sharing memories of you, and I was so glad I did it. I told her it was just between us. And she kept that. I think she appreciated the confidence.

I think you’d have loved that if only for a moment, when asked last night my plans for today, I did not immediately understand the question. It’s probably one of the best gifts I could give you at this point.

There are some moments when I am glad you are not here for certain things. There are some unpleasant aspects of growing older that you’d have hated. There are some moments in parenthood that would break your heart. There are some happenings in the world, I can be glad you never saw. But they are few and they pale to the things I absolutely loathe that you miss. This gives me perspective.

There are so many regular moments that you’d have given anything to be here with me, with the kids. In every accomplishment, milestone, or struggle, I can feel you in my heart, and the missing you still takes my breath away. I have the challenging parenting moments where I think “how did you leave me with this?” but it’s the good moments (big and small) that you miss with the kids, that hit me the hardest.

In my more selfish moments, I grieve the person that I could not be because you are not here. In my heart, I hope you see me, and are proud of the person I have become without you here.

I hope that whatever is out there beyond this life, you are at peace, but you feel all the love we have for you.

After all this time. Always, MaryBeth

“I cry a lot but I am so productive, it’s an art.” ~ Taylor Swift

Six years, learning to take my own advice

This time of year is heavy. Each year, it comes around and I think it will be less so, with the passage of time. And each year, I am wrong. As I wrote in my post Pain, my body remembers. It’s that simple.

This year seemed poignant because all the days of the week lined up with the dates as they did 6 years ago. When he first got sick, diagnosed, each and every milestone. I try to logic my way out of it. Why is this time hard? It actually happened 6 years ago. It’s not actually happening again.

In some ways, it happens every day. In some way or another, I feel the loss of him, each and every day. I have moments where I feel so very robbed, I feel how much he was robbed, and how much the kids were robbed, and in unexpected moments, they feel it (and share it) too. This life is full of gut punches.

But this time of year is simply hard. I do get great feeling from reflecting on the memories. Particularly on the ways in which people showed up. So many different ways. And in the ways they keep showing up. I’ve run into people in the last year that I haven’t seen since we lost Tim. They have shared stories of their experience of watching the news of Tim’s death unfold from afar, their own reactions to it, in some cases, how it changed the course of their lives. Some have shared memories of Tim that I never knew. I’ve also had to tell people the story. New acquaintances, parents of A,R, and D’s friends or teammates. It is always tricky to share the story. It’s a heavy story for small talk, but it is integral to our lives, so sometimes it must be shared, as much as I know it can deeply affect others.

This past year has included many changes for us. Joyful times, and difficult ones. I’ve felt myself often in the midst of quite a “midlife metamorphosis” and I have often questioned my own decisions. In all ways, but particularly in parenting. I wear the mantle of making decisions for all of us, and it can be a heavy one to bear, full of second-guessing, and shaming myself.

Over the years, I have loved to speak to other widows and widowers about our experiences. When I do, I always encourage them to be gentle with themselves. I encourage others in any heart break to go with their gut, to not “should” themselves, question or shame, but trust their instincts to make the best decision available at the time, and know that they are building a beautiful life. When difficult moments come, or one finds themselves on the wrong path, love themselves, and find the way to course-correct. You don’t always have to DO or fix. Sometimes your home, your world, your life will be messy. Sometimes you accept, sometimes you just have to rest.

This life of mine is full of gut punches, difficult conversations, and challenging choices. I also have moments where I look around and see how incredibly blessed I am. I know in aging, how much Tim would prefer to be here with the new wrinkles or pains. I know how much he’d love to wake up surrounded by the three beautiful souls he helped create, who I wake up to every morning. We wake up with a roof over our heads, and food to eat, love to share.

The only thing I can do, is take things one day at a time. I may not always succeed, but I try to take my own advice, and be gentle with myself.

Saying Goodbye

I shared this on Social Media on July 7, 2022:

Today was a deeply sad day for the kids and me.

Over 14 years ago, Timmy Gaige and I met Benjamin Joseph Saunders-Gaige at a Homeward Trails adoption event, and not long after he came to live with us. Tim made him an email address and a Facebook account, and let him up on the bed when I was traveling for work. We took him camping, and basically any place we could get away with. We knew we drove some people crazy with our obsession with him…. But then he always won them over!

Almost 11 years ago we started bringing home strange new beings who took all of our time and attention. Yet he watched over them. And always (from the beginning through today) his Dr. Julianne Fisher was there for us and for him.

Nearly 17 years, a million squirrels chased, walks, hikes, runs, pats, kisses, belly rubs, tears in your fur, 2 surgeries, countless roadtrips. You were my constant companion. You loved my babies like your own.

I know how much you missed Tim. How much you lit up when you heard his voice on video after he was gone.

I know he is waiting for you on the other side of that rainbow bridge. I will miss you so much, BJ, as do your human siblings, but I know how happy you are to be together again with the tall one. I will dream of your reunion.

I can’t wait to see you again, it’s only a matter of time. I will take my time… I have more living and loving to do, but I will see you both again when my time is up!

#always

I have no doubts or regrets regarding how we handled the end of BJ’s life. It was his time, and I am so glad that he was able to go peacefully, with a mouth full of chocolate – kisses and reese’s – surrounded by the ladies who have loved him most. Here are some photos of the end that I didn’t share on social media:

Saying Goodbye surrounded by those who love him with our whole hearts.

I remained calm and steady here up until I held his paw and said to him “Say hi to Daddy for us.” And then the tears flowed.

It’s not the first time I held someone I loved until they stopped breathing. Different, yes. But there is something universal and other-worldly about those last breaths. Something about being with someone you love at that moment when they cross to the other side. Something beautiful and gut-wrenching and breath-taking and indescribable.

Even though I knew then and know now that it was for the best, that he went in the best possible way, and I am so grateful for that – it doesn’t lessen just how much I miss that companion. When I am the first one home, I open the door expecting to see him. I still expect to see him next to me when I wake up. I thought the loss of our dog would be dwarfed by the incredible weight of the loss of Tim. I was wrong.

What an incredible testament to the boundlessness of the human heart’s capacity to love.

Afterall, grief is the price we pay for love. (I believe Queen Elizabeth II is creditted with this one.)

The price is high, but I will keep on paying it. There is no other way.

Five years

A while ago I received a beautiful save the date in the mail for my cousin / Godfather’s daughter’s wedding. It caught my eye immediately with the date:6/11. That date always jumps off the page. I am excited today to celebrate a new marriage, young love, and I hope dearly that they experience the same beautiful union, with all its messy pieces that I lived (hopefully with many more years). At the same time, I hold Tim in my heart in a special way on this day. In a quieter way than his birthday, perhaps, but in a way that is deeply meaningful for me.

Recently, I saw a note in a widow’s group that said “When’s the last time you took a moment to appreciate how far you’ve come since your loss?” – Jen Santaniello

Five years certainly seems like the right time to pause and do that. While its hard for me to quantify how far I have come, I can certainly see how far the kids have come. My ability to shepherd them through life on my own, is certainly a thing I would have deemed impossible for the first 35 years of my life. I hold that as the greatest measure of how far I have come, but there are small, less measurable ways that I have evolved that I know Tim would truly appreciate. Reflecting on those allows me to see “how far I’ve come.”

I read this in the book I am reading this week, and it deeply resounded with me:

“All will be well”….
And when I had recoiled at how trite and superficial that sounded.. she’d said
“I don’t mean that life won’t bring you tragedy…
I only mean that you will be well in spite of it… there’s a place in you that’s inviolate. You’ll find your way there when you need to and you’ll know then of what I speak.” – Sue Monk Kidd (The Book of Longings)

It is my greatest desire to honor his life, all that he loved and held dear, while living my own life to the fullest, honoring all that I love and hold dear, and ensure our kids are held and safe, as they continue to become.

Life check

There are a lot of memories for me today… 5 years ago today was the last time I heard Tim’s voice. It was the day that I decided to take him to the hospital, and he never came home. I wrote about this a bit in my letters: A year without your Voice and Another year without your voice.

Today, I want to reflect on this past weekend. I chose to go out to Vegas with my 3 best friends from college for a reunion weekend and an all day Music fest: Lovers and Friends. I know that everything is a risk. Especially these days, with covid (less life-threatening thanks to vaccines) but still rampant. Especially, because we live in America.

My friend Anne was ready to go before the headliners, so we walked her to the gate and told her to get an Uber not the bus back to her hotel.

Shruti, Stacia and I went back in, to the main stage area for TLC (which was awesome). Next up was Usher, Ludacris and lil Jon on the main stage. It was a break so we sat down on the ground. There were a good number of people around us also sitting down. There was DJ music, so medium loud but the three of us were chatting. I was beat. Closed my eyes a few times. Trying to think if Stacia and I could convince Shruti to leave before Lauryn Hill, because it was a long day standing on blacktop that was hotter than the surface of the sun and I was whooped. All of the sudden Shruti says “Get up! Get up! Get up!” I look back and see a wave of humans coming at me in the dark. Shruti grabs Stacia, Stacia grabs me, I grip my water bottle and hat (which I ripped off my head) And Stacia for dear life and RUN! People were ducking and running but very little screaming. It was so scary but the crowd was so NICE! Everyone who touched me was gentle like they didn’t want to hurt me but wanted me to know they were there/ to move forward. We rushed towards the stage and ended up near the front, Shruti pulled us to side thinking of getting trampled and we ended up near a security gate to the VIP section and people started jumping it. No one knew what was happening but there was a buzz of possible gun fire. (Because we live in America) I strained hard to listen. It was absolutely terrifying. I’ve never been in a situation like that before. I managed to be afraid both of getting trampled and of being shot at the same time. People were trying desperately to stay together with their people, and also move in the right direction, and keep each other safe. Stacia started shaking with repressed sobs and I nearly lost it too. I immediately thought “I cannot let my children be orphaned because I wanted to go to a concert.” Somehow this steadied me. I knew I had to keep my senses sharp and remain in control.

When we got to the fence, Shruti struggled to get over it and people helped her. When we got over into VIP we were able to head towards a VIP exit but still no one knew what was happening. But we were ready to get out! We got back to the hotel where we parked, and asked security for first aid because Shruti’s foot was bleeding. Some random concert goers stopped and had bandaids, gauze etc in their clear plastic bag. Stacia and Shruti had some things in a locker, that we will never see again but thank God Stacia had her car keys! (She also had my sunglasses and I had everything else I brought, phone, wallet in my skirt pockets.) It took a long time to get out of the garage but we eventually made it home to Stacia’s house. While exiting we heard Usher and realized that they kept playing! But clearly, we were done.

The music was absolutely phenomenal, but it’s definitely my last festival. That’s not a risk I need to take. Earlier in the day, I thought the heat was the big drama. I will always hold close that in the heat of the moment, Shruti saved my life.

In all things, I wonder #WWTD. I know he’d have understood my desire to go. He’d have wanted me to see my friends. He’d have encouraged it. I went out to Vegas with those 3 when I was very pregnant with D in 2016. I am a person who knows deep in my bones that no matter what precautions you take – tragedy can strike. That even when you marry a man with excellent family history, who takes little to no risks, follows all the rules, avoids tobacco, drugs, motorcycles, firearms… you can get hit with a perfect storm of nearly unbelievable disease and he can die at 37 years old in the prime of his life.

I live in the balance between carpe diem and which risks are too much.

I came home today. I held my babies close. I told them the story. I held HIS babies close.

I reread tonight Another year without your voice and I am reminded how much I’d want to share not only our children, but this world we live in with Tim. I watched one of my friend’s husband’s respond to what we went through and I saw Tim. This, remains so true today:

I’d want to tell you about the disappointing things going on in our country and in the world… I’d want to hear your outrage – not because I want you to be upset, but because it always inspired me, and because I’d know there was one more white male in this country who GOT IT. I’d want to tell you what has happened with me, with my work, ask your advice, report on friends, with other family.. well, I’d want to tell you everything. But you probably wouldn’t let me get to it if we were short on time. All you’d want to hear would be our children. I wish you could see them now! I like to believe you can. I wish we could see you! I guess I do. I see so much of you in them every day. No matter what, you live on in us.
Another year without your voice

On the very same day that I experienced this, in Buffalo, NY, a city that my Tim loved with his whole heart, from his camp days – experienced a terrible white supremacist’s massacre in a super market in a predominantly black neighborhood.

The terrifying experience made me realize just how much I need to appreciate my life. It is, of course, a thing I should have learned 5 years ago when Tim’s took the craziest turn. But all of the things I worry about daily can be reduced to nothing when you consider the sanctity of life. May we remember that, appreciate it, and fight for it always, not in cells that are growing as a part of a woman’s body, but full, live humans of every race, religion, orientation, gender identity.

May we all offer each other every day the same love, grace, and respect I experienced from the Lovers and Friends festival-goers of May 14, 2022.

Four years

Recently, a friend told me that a friend of hers (who I don’t believe I’ve ever met) said “How long has it been?… almost 4 years? She’s not seeing anyone now? What are you doing to help her with that?”

I have found that there is a continuum of widowhood. At least on the observation (judgment?) scale. Its “ooooh, too soon” to “mmmm, when is (s)he going to move on?” There is no set time when the switch flips, but as soon as it does, you can FEEL it. Not internally, but in the way others treat you.

There have been things in the last 4 years. Flirtations, situations, intimacy. I have no regrets. Things happened when they did, why they did, for reasons that I can not explain, and yet for which I am very grateful. The first was, by all external observation “too soon.” And yet, I am extremely grateful for it. It was just what I needed, when I needed it. It was joy, excitement, sadness, distraction, but most of all, it helped me understand myself so much better than anything else could have at that time. I guess I could say it was a revelation. It was about me, and not about only my loss. And when it needed to be over, it was so very clear to me, in a way that it would not have been for a younger version of myself, for a pre-Tim, pre-children version of me. In that time, I was telling myself I was only surviving, but I found that I wasn’t only surviving, I was fully living, and I was getting to really know who I am. If anything, I was falling in love with myself. Another situation was just as rewarding. It was good for my heart, fun, and freeing. It may have been cut extra short by global pandemic, and yet helped with that too. It was truly always on a timeline. And in all things, as a mother, my children – their happiness and safety – come first, and other choices fit around that.

I told someone else recently that my father died last year, and their first question was whether my mother would remarry. I immediately found this an interesting and (to me) unexpected response. Like, do you remember you are speaking to a widow at this moment? I’m not sure he did. He was thinking of when his own father died, and that his mother did remarry. And that’s ok. I understand that we live life relative to our own experiences, what we know, what we understand.

On Glennon Doyle’s podcast, We can do hard things, she and Amanda were talking about the question “What happened?” Their topic was specific to infidelity, and the end of both of their first marriages… but Amanda talked about how awful that question is, and specifically because its never for the person being asked, always for the asker (I am paraphrasing – I 100% recommend listening to the actual podcast We Can Do Hard Things). Amanda talked about the person asking wanting to know what happened, so that they can understand, analyze, diagnose how it happened, so they can mentally come to terms with how it won’t happen to them.

How MUCH I identified with this. I had to laugh, too. Imagine Tim’s response if I told him I identified with a podcast about infidelity. He was the most fiercely loyal human I have ever known, he would have been initially aghast. But he also never lived through the aftermath of the love of his life’s death, and I know he’d have a lot of grace for that unknown. I had a very intelligent friend ask me if the fact that Tim lost his hair so young was a sign? Was it the cancer? I couldn’t even believe he was asking me this…. and yet I did. I understand the NEED to look for a reason, or for a sign that we all missed. I understand looking for that comfort. It may not be a luxury I have, but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.

I am, always, who I am because I loved Tim, and because I lost Tim. Not just because of our children that I am raising, but the forever imprint on my heart, my being, and my knowing. He is present in the decisions I make for our family, and I have silly moments when I think of him and it stops me completely still. We move forward as a family, always letting each other become who we were meant to become. I can not wait to see who our children will be in each next step in their lives. And I also look forward to learning who I am becoming.

My mind is open, my heart is open, and I continue to do just “the next right thing.”

“…I chased desire, I made sure I got what’s mine…. and I continue to believe that I’m the one for me. And because I’m mine, I walk the line. We’re adventurers in heartbreak so that our final destination we lack…We’ve stopped asking directions to places they’ve never been. To be loved, we need to be known, we’ll finally find our way back home. And through the joy and pain that are life’s brain, we can do hard things” – Tish Melton

Three years

I remember so vividly three years ago today. There are times when I could not tell you what I had for lunch yesterday, but those last moments in the hospital are crystal clear. I mentioned in June 11th is coming. that right there at the end I sang to him our wedding song, and I told him, “I will not make a big deal of this date.” I knew he would hate that. And I’ve tried to maintain that… plan the memorial sporting event around this time of year / father’s day, plus “celebrate” father’s day. And I managed again this year to not tell the kids what today was… I didn’t think I would get away with it this year, because A mentioned it the other day, “isn’t June 11th the day daddy died?” But she did not mention it today, and I did not bring it up. I told them there was a special end-of-the-school-year treat coming. And it did – we had an ice cream truck come to our cul de sac! They loved it!

Tim and I once took part in an “ice cream Thursday” tradition at work, and today being the ultimate “ice cream Thursday” brought me some joy. It also brought the opportunity to celebrate the end of this difficult school year, with three months of the kids at home, all of us at home, staying safe from the corona virus. We were delighted to have other neighbors come down for the ice cream truck, including R’s first grade teacher!

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But I can not help that this day hits me hard. As much as I want it to be just any other day. The date is everywhere. I wrote the date on a million forms and papers, had it engraved several places. The date is engraved in my heart. And try as I might to not make a big deal of the date, it ends up making a big deal to me. So many memories flood in. The whole day feels heavy. Tim loved me so much for who I am, I am sure he would forgive me for this. This guy here, his son. This week I mentioned daddy while we were in his hammock together, and D turned to me and said very seriously, very matter-of-factly “Mama, my daddy – he is always dead.” It surprised me as he has never said this before. But it is also simply true, however much I hate that this is his reality.

I am sad that due to the corona virus, we will not be able to celebrate with friends and family at the memorial sporting event this year. But I am hopeful that we will be able to do that next year. This time in history that we are in right now also feels very heavy: emerging into summer, and a phased re-entry into a “new normal,” and trying to imagine what comes next.

I so hope that this time brings transformational social change that we desperately need, change that makes it a better, kinder, safer world for every single citizen on earth. I know that is what Tim would want for the world his children live in.

Three years, and so much has changed. We have all changed – me, and each of the kids. The world around us is changing fast. I hope we continue to change with it. I have no doubt that Tim’s light, life, and spark will be in our hearts always. Always.

“You have stolen my heart

And from the ballroom floor we are a celebration

One good stretch before our hibernation

Our dreams assured and we are, we’ll sleep well… sleep well… sleep well… sleep well”

~ Dashboard Confessional “Stolen” (Our wedding song)