My husband was my best friend and soul mate. We were similar in many respects, and yet different in many ways.
Both of us appreciated wits and arts.
He was almost six foot tall, and I am five foot one.
We both enjoyed learning different cultures and were the best travel buddies.
He went to private schools and was from a somewhat privileged family. I am from a working family and graduated from a public high school.
We were neither optimists nor pessimists. He was an idealist with the scientific mind, and I am pragmatic.
Neither of us took ourselves seriously. Even when he was gravely ill, we didn’t miss any chance for laughs.
When we were eating spaghetti, I would say, “Lycopene from tomatoes is good for you. It prevents cancer,” and look at him. “Oh, it’s too late.” His tomato sauce went flying as he burst out laughing.
When his friends asked about his condition, he replied that I would soon be available and that anybody with the six figures should contact me.
When we got him a new cell phone with the two-year contract, he kept repeating that he needed to survive just for two years.
We loved to laugh at ourselves.
He was honest, generous, larger than life and much smarter than me, and I loved him for all of the above and more.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Born to Be With You.”