35 years, 4 cats, 3 kids, 2 grandkids
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- May 25, 2025
- 39
When George and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary, we hopped in the car and took off for 10 days on a New England road trip. I had no itinerary planned, except for making stops in Mystic, Connecticut; Salem, Massachusetts; and Bar Harbor, Maine.
We filled the spots in between with side-of-the-road shrimp baskets and lots of little villages and shops along the way. We took backroads at every turn, and every Sunday morning since, we use the crab and lobster coffee mugs we bought at a general store.
The trip was one of the most memorable meanderings we ever took.
So much has happened in the 10 years since that trip that has affected my life. I went on a writing residency in Mexico and finished plus published my book, Mom died, the spiraling travails of our country began, I became a grandma, George suffered a heart attack and had two heart surgeries, and I became a hard yet malleable lump of clay, which is where I write from.
Our 35th wedding anniversary is this weekend, and we find ourselves holding on to each other for dear life. It sounds silly to say we’ve been through rough patches and are still here. Who hasn’t gone through rough patches where you don’t want to hear one word from the other person?
I’ve told him there were moments where each word he said was like a chipping away of my brain matter. He laughed. We laughed together. Being able to talk about it now is like a whooshing of needed air into the lungs, a life-giving air supply.
I wanted to do a getaway this weekend, somewhere we could stay overnight and have a lush brunch the next day. But I think we’re going to Mohican instead and having a picnic with our son’s family. We stayed in the Mohican area on our wedding night. The motel was as small as our budget, and to this day, I can remember how the light came through the curtains the next morning.
“Can you believe we’re married?” George said. I lay under the covers with my head on his shoulder, thinking the same thing. We were so young.
The number of years we’ve spent together doesn’t matter. It’s not a contest. I would rather separate if we were unhappy than stay together for the sake of the creep of years. I’ve learned one person cannot fulfill you, and we have to learn to make ourselves happy.
But sickness and health came, and we’re here on the other side of it. Will there be more sickness to come? Maybe, but also more happiness. I’m sure more bickering as well, but we love that and also the other side of it, when the annoyance runs out. The annoyance always runs out. Maybe we will be here, and maybe we will end up in Mexico. Maybe we will end up somewhere else.
All I know is home is where George is, 35 years or five years. His voice is home, and his hands are home. The way he refills a coffee cup and puts just the right amount of Half & Half is home. The way he brings me mixed drinks on our front porch is home. The way he roughhouses with our 9-year-old cat is home. Whether we have one more year or 20, I’m treating each minute as if there won’t be another.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.