The Most Important Thing

Twenty-two years ago today I met my husband, and eight years ago on Tuesday, February 16, he died in a single-car accident about 1/4 mile from our home.

We had a rom-com-worthy meet cute.

I was teaching at New Options Middle School in Seattle (now Salmon Bay, and the best school ever) and had just received a call from the garage looking at my car. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny Friday afternoon, a Friday when I was scheduled to chaperone the school’s Ski Club trip to Snoqualmie Pass.

Instead, I found myself sweating in long underwear after school, listening to the mechanic as he said things like, “The wheels could have fallen off,” and “You cannot drive this car anymore.”

Claire. I had only had her for a week. A powder blue car whose make and model I forget but who was a replacement for a car that was totaled when I was hit-and-run from behind by a drunk driver on the way home from another Ski Club outing, late the previous Friday night. Insurance gave me $1600 for that car, and I spent it on Claire, the only car I could find for small cash, a car that had been apparently submerged at one point and was now in possession of rusted-out wheel bearings and an axle or two of uncertain stability.

I canceled Ski Club chaperoning. I called a tow truck. I called a rental car place. I got a ride to the mechanic.

I emptied Claire out and sat like a hobo with all of my possessions on the concrete wall in front of the mechanic to wait for the rental car people to pick me up.

Eventually, the tow truck showed up and pulled into the lot. I turned around to look into the shop and saw a tall, lanky man with bleachy, spiky hair leaning on the counter. He had a cast on his left arm from his wrist to his elbow and had the practiced lean of a person who was not really in an hurry. I turned back around and sat for a few minutes, sweating and fretting about the money I was about to lose, then turned back around to see him still there.

I stood up, hopped over the concrete divider I was sitting on, opened the door, and stuck my head in.

“You looking for me?” I asked.

“I guess I am,” he said.

I canceled the rental car and let Dane drive me to the car lot, where I had him turn on his tow truck lights and park smack in the middle of their business. I stormed into the office and demanded my money back. I was aware of Dane watching me as I harangued the guy behind the counter, aware of him watching me as I climbed back into the tow truck.

Our first date wouldn’t happen until February 16, 1999, a date where he picked me up in a wide Lincoln Continental, white with crimson velvet interior, an auction car. We listened to Portishead on the way to the bar, and when he walked through the front door he reached his hand back for mine without looking, a surprisingly intimate gesture for a first date.

We played darts, drank beer.

We built a life together, and then that life disappeared on the side of the road in the middle of the night, 14 years later.

As time stretches away from the night he died, I am beginning to forget some things. Specific dates, times, things we fought about, what we did every day in our life together.

But I knew when he reached for my hand on that first date, the way you know things in your bones, that we would make a life together. We lived an entire life together in just 14 years – lost parents, had a baby, lost a house, lost jobs, lost a baby, moved across the country – so much loss, but joy, too. Love.

As I write this I feel a literal ache in the place where my heart is. In many ways, this beautiful life of mine now is what it is because of Dane. He loved me, and he loved our child, with every part of himself – all of the broken bits and the joyful, exuberant parts, too. I think of him most this time of year, but he is not often far from my thoughts.

I feel lucky to have been able to understand what is really important in life, early, to get an idea that we think we have time, but it’s no use dwelling on how much or how little.

And that our days and lives are made up of small, quiet moments, not huge gestures. Reaching out for a hand. A greeting kiss. Your beloved’s hand on the small of your back. The idea that you have a person in the world who is home for you, no matter what.

On this bittersweet day, I remember Dane. His smile. His sweet blue eyes. His laugh. The way he loved me.

I remember that my people are the most important thing. And for that, and for Dane – the whole messy, tragic, and joyful experience of our life together – I am also grateful.