Our first real date was on Valentine’s Day 10 years ago. Many times in the five years since my partner died, I’ve flashed back to that day when we became, officially, more than just friends.
On my first Valentine’s Day without Evelyn, I spent hours paging through old photographs. Those pictures speak to our love and her resolve, but they don’t tell the whole story.
Dying while doing what we love is how we’d all like to go out. But as I watched my friends risk everything for the thrill of the climb, I felt compelled to remind them of the difference between challenge and folly.
A museum exhibit and a feature film provided a challenge to our columnist — and to the unorthodox focus group she convened: How to modernize grief garb.
My husband died when I was 7-months pregnant with my second child. A year on, I’m again looking for a mate — this time with an infant and a toddler in tow.
The Supreme Court ruled in favor of same sex marriage on what would have been my 28th anniversary with my partner. Though we were never able to marry, I consider myself a widower.
