What to say

I have been writing about the Bobs in my life. Last night I tried to write in the same vein about the Wayne in my life. It's harder. Can anyone tell me why that is?

I suppose it's because the Bobs came and went, and Wayne--well, you know. He did not come and go. Well, he did go but not until we had been married 40 years.

I suppose it's because there is too much to tell.

I'm looking at a picture I keep on my desk. It's of Wayne, standing on a nicely graded dirt path in McCall, Idaho. All around him are trees small and large. His hands are on his hips, his blue jacket tied around him. He holds my red jacket in his right hand and lets it hang down to his knees. He's looking at me--because I'm taking the picture.

We went up there and rented bicycles to ride around the lake, but the bicycles are not in the picture. In our early fifties, maybe. I don't know. It's a picture I like a lot. Nothing grand to remember about it. Just a nice little trip.

Yes, I could write about every day we spent together. But that would get into the everydayness of things.

I don't know how a person could actually do that. Or why.