Where the Ocean Takes Over the Quiet

Turns out there were a couple of things that I seem to have forgotten about sunrise at the ocean.  Maybe not as much forgot but maybe things I simply had taken for granite since I have experienced them so many times.  Either way, 55 days into my new chapter, I wanted to share some words about the ocean that I somehow had missed.  The first is that transition from the world to the beach that happens on the walk from the car to the ocean.  This stretch of ocean is not new to me, I have take this walk more times than i can count over the 25 years Bride and I lived here, but it does not feel the same now.  

When I get out of my car, the sounds of the world exist.  Rumbling of cars driving around, the hum of air conditioners, the honking of horns, or maybe the screaming of a siren.  The pitter patter of runners, joggers and walkers and occasionally the dude who asks ya for a few bucks.  There is like a 50 foot stretch on the walk to the ocean in which the sounds of the world start to die down. They are slowly being drowned out by the sound of the ocean. 

I love that transition almost as much as the sunrise.  In those few feet, the transition is also working on my mind, my mood, and I slowly transition to the anticipation of seeing my old friend, the Atlantic.  The drowning out of the day to day of things, and the roaring up of the ocean.  It is almost like two dimmer switches operating in tandem, one going down and the other going up in perfect synchronicity.  Like an emergency generator slewing its phase to  that of the power grid before seamlessly switching back when power is restored.  I had forgotten how much I loved that short bit of the walk.

The spot I went this morning had a huge tidal pool between me and the ocean.  They are funny, and I have no idea how they form.  I am sure the google could answer that for me but sometimes I simply don’t need to know.  Sometimes they are inches deep, other times feet deep.  Today was about 18 inches, almost getting my cargo shorts wet as I walked through.  They are also very cold, I guess that is more from the overnight and the lack of connection to the warm water of the ocean.  The contrast hits harder than I remember. 

It is similar to the feeling of the sand in the morning after a rain.  The sand is cold and  mostly hardened, not the dry warm sand of the day.  I had also forgotten what a natural abrasive the beach can be.  A daily walk on the beach would not doubt save folks thousands of dollars of grinding and polishing our heels and feet before pedicures, which I am getting another one of while I am here.    

Even in winter the water here is always pretty warm, a product of the gulf stream zipping by no doubt.  The first day I was here I sat up on the dry sand, I didn’t even have a towel yet.  I resolved that by immediately buying a folding chair, like the ones at a tailgating party.  I also bought a beach towel, just in case.  Sunday and today I sat in that chair in the surf, both days the tide was coming in.  Generally I would wait until the water was deep enough to hit my butt before sliding back a bit.  Not wanting to be soaking wet, I slid back when it got half way up my calf.

There is absolute relentlessness to the tides, on the way in, it churns pebbles, sea shells and coral into sand.  On the way out, dragging seaweed, kelp and shit dumbasses leave on the beach back into the ocean.  A constant cleansing, grinding up of what was and a renewal of the beach itself by depositing new life.  And the rats with wings keeping all that in balance, I watched this morning as one snatched a small crab up and ate it.

I was surprised how different the transition from the noise of the world to the sound of the ocean hit on these first couple of days.  This beach holds more than sand and ocean for me.  Bride and I actually got remarried here at 20 years in.  There are a lot of memories here for me.  Ya can’t spend that long in a place without it holding pieces of life that ya can’t quite set down.  It was a reminder that the world has not slowed down a bit.  People are still driving too fast, worrying about meaningless things, going to meetings that feel important in the moment, and seem irrelevant five minutes later. 

And I am still in it, doing the dang things that just feel different now.  But somewhere in that walk, there is a subtle shift.  The noise fades just enough, just enough for me to actually feel what’s hidden there.  It’s not louder, just clearer.  Grief has not really shown up for me when everything is loud.  It shows up in that 50 foot window, when things finally get quiet enough that I can’t avoid it. 

And what I am realizing is that I can’t live in either place all the time.  The noise lets me function in the world, and the quiet allows the space to feel all the feels.  That short walk is where both exist at the same time.  It feels like the closest to balancing all of this I have found so far.  Not fixing anything, not escaping anything, just learning how to move between the two in a way that might become manageable.  Kinda like my own two dimmer switches trying to stay in sync, even when the system underneath is rebelling against syncing up.

I also noticed how the tidal pool this morning felt a bit like my grief.  The tidal pools are disconnected from the whole, left behind as the tide goes back to its normal place.  Some are shallow, some are deeper than we expect in the dark, and they are always colder.  That cold hits hard and lingers as we wade through.  Sure, I could have probably walked around it, maybe even picked a different spot on the beach to avoid it, but sooner or later you just have to step on in, without overthinking it.  I don’t understand why some moments hit harder than others or why the water is colder in some areas than in others.  I don’t need a clear explanation for them, how they form or why they stick around or move, I simply accept that they do.

The abrasion bit, that one is real too.  The whole thing is wearing me down in slow, almost unnoticeable ways.  Or maybe not wearing me down as much as forming me into something new. Not anything catastrophic or all at once, just a constant knocking off of the edges and maybe even a bit of polishing.  The routines, the memories, and all the little mundane things that used to be automatic now seem to take more effort than before, all the history always popping in to remind me of my loss.  In some ways I know it’s not all bad, this is a part of the ride for all of us. 

That does not mean it does not suck, and it does not mean we don’t have to keep moving forward.  The friction some days feels like 36 grit on an angle grinder, just whacking away at it all.  Other days it feels like the methodicalness of 1600 grit on a whetstone with a chisel or block plane blade.  Not sure where beach sand lives on the grit scale but I know it is my favorite of grits.  Even walking on partially crushed up shells, I keep moving forward but I am aware of every step.   

The ocean does not rush it, and I am starting to see that I don’t need to either.  The dimmers are still there, one going up and the other going down, just not moving together the way they used to.  And ya know what, Im starting to think that’s not something I need to fix.  Maybe I just need to keep writing my three things, keep taking that walk, and let it find its own rhythm. 

And, all of this sucks.

 

Today, It Feels Lighter

So we had the remembrance for Sandy yesterday, or maybe it was a celebration of life or maybe it was a service.  Whatever the official name, it was getting to say a few words in front of her Friends and Family, and four of her Siblings got that opportunity as well.  Having done it now I realize just how hard that can be, I am so proud of her siblings getting up and saying a few words about their Sister.  I am also VERY appreciative of them, and one of Sandy's friends from grade school, supporting me by being here. 

Then I got up, thanked the folks who have supported me at the funeral home and the Chaplain, as well as some words for the Navy folks who played taps and presented me a flag.  I said a few words of thanks for everyone who supported me through this and how I have been lifted up by so many amazing humans I have bumped into along the way.  I also shared my gratitude for the gift of getting to spend 38 years with my best friend. 

I also talked about refusing to be sad about any of it, Bride literally gave me the best part of my whole life.   And closed with some words about not having any idea what my next chapter looks like, and that I am certain the universe will lay it out for me when the time is right, it always has.  After that I alternated between telling my own funny stories and sharing those I collected.  I think the biggest revelation was hearing the origin story of her nickname Sam.  I never called her that but most in her family did.

It was hard to get there, I probably over anticipated that though because once I got to reading the funny stories it became easier and the further along I got the easier it got.  I also started to feel some of the burden of grief starting to ease up as well.  That was a pleasant surprise, and much welcomed.  When I was done speaking, the USN navy presented me with a flag.  I always get choked up at the playing of taps and watching the presentation of the flag.  This felt even more emotional because today I was accepting that flag as a symbol of the gratitude of the nation for her honorable and faithful service while taps was played.  It was a powerful emotional moment.

We wrapped up, some of the folks I work with came and I shared some words of appreciation for them coming, it was a bit of a blur as my brain was going 1,000 miles an hour.  Things I should have said, or something I should have said differently, a story I should have told and wondering if Sandy would have liked it.  One thing I should have said is a bit of the eulogy Jackie gave for Ned Devine, or Michael O’Sullivan and if you don’t get the reference, watch Waking Ned Devine.

It would have gone like this – The words that are spoken at a funeral are spoken too late for the person who is dead.  What a wonderful thing it would be to visit your own funeral.  To sit at the front and hear what was said, maybe say a few things yourself.   Sandy and I grew old together.  But at times, when we laughed, we grew young.  If she was here now, if she could hear what I say, I’d congratulate her on being a great woman and thank her for being my friend.  And we laughed A LOT!!!

We even laughed about maybe writing some words for our own funerals, eventually tried a couple of times but it seemed so weird.  Maybe I will do that now for me, haha, she’d think that was funny. 

When I got back home that evening, sharing space with her siblings and close friend, I started to feel a great wave of relief.  I liked it but it felt weird, a lightning of the load I was not expecting.  As the evening went along, I started feeling tired, almost exhausted.  I thought maybe because it was a day I stressed over, to the point of taking one of her Xanex on my way to the service.

I finally turned in, and I slept like a baby.  Not a single wake up to pee or even a roll over, I woke up in the exact position I was in when I laid down.  That was the first night I slept like a baby since April 20^th, my last night sleeping next to my Honey.  I woke up feeling lighter, feeling  well rested and ready for the day.  I have not woken up like that for a bit.  Not sure what any of that means but life feels a bit different today, and I fucking like it!

And maybe that is enough of an answer in this moment.  I don’t need to understand it, maybe just noticing it is enough.  The weight shifted and eased the load. the air feels a bit crisper and for the first time in a while it does not feel like I am bracing for what ever comes next.   Feels more like I’m figuring out how to carry this awkward load rather than being crushed by the weight of it.   I know I will still have days that hit me in the mouth, but today didn’t.  Today felt like a gift and I am grateful for it.

Ya know, if I am being honest, today feels like something she’d be happy about.  Not the hard, not any of the shit really but the idea that I am still getting my feet back under me, laughing a bit more, and even smiling a bit more, and trying to figure out how to be in this next version of life.  The more I sit with it the more it feels less like a moment and more like something inside me is recalibrating, to compensate for the changes, kinda like the adaptive correction circuit on TV transmitter exciter.  It ain’t fixed, but it does not feel as broken either.  And for now, that’s progress.  Not perfect, but ill take progress over perfection every damn time.

BTW, the recording of the service will be on the site tomorrow in case ya missed it. Sandra "Sandy" Smith - Roper and Sons  share a memory while your there as well.

The Ocean, Sunrise, Sunset and Doing the Hell out of Everything in Between

 I left Florida for Oregon on January 20^th 2015, or 4,156 days ago.  While I miss with all my heart the friends and chosen family I left behind, being so close to the ocean is a very close second.  My connection to the ocean began when I served in the Navy.  The immense power, the immense isolation, the immense size, are all deeply felt in my bones, something that was awakened in those early days as a Sailor.  Living close to the beach in Jacksonville was a blessing as I could go there pretty much any time I wanted, although I must admit most of my trips were bright and early.

My #1 Zen spot is sitting in a cheap plastic Adirondack chair with my feet in the sand, or ocean, and watching the sun come up.  #2 was the Ponder Porch looking down at Cedar Creek, or Smith River I liked to call it.  At the beach, it was actually that hour and a half before the actual time of sunrise.  That is when the show happens, the sunrise itself is somewhat anticlimactic.  I could not even begin to count the number of times I watched the sun come up on the beach.  It was pretty dang cool watching a sunrise from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic as well.

Sunrise for me is not about the moment the sun breaks the horizon.  It is about the long quiet negotiation between blackness and the daylight that happens before most are paying attention.   The sky trying on colors before it fully commits to what it will wear for the day.  It is felt before it is seen.  The air changes, the sounds of the pelicans and sandpipers start to grow.  It is the part of the day that does not ask anything of you.  No expectations, no scorecard, just possibilities in that short window of time.

Sunrise is not about a fresh start every day as much as it is permission from the universe to try again to be a better version of yourself.  Not a single win is ever guaranteed in a day.  But for me, watching the majesty of a sunrise is the win, my eyeballs popped open and I got to experience another one.  The sunrise is also a constant for me, a steady reminder that time keeps moving on, the earth continues to rotate through the days.  Regardless of whether we are ready for them or not and that in and of itself is a cherished gift.  No sunrise promises a good day, it only promises a chance to make one. 

Sunsets are much different for me, I love them as well.  Sunsets are more about an accountability check.  That moment where the day gets to ask me, what did ya do with me?  What difference did make with me?   Sunsets are where the noise dies down, and whatever is left is the truth of our day, and our lives.  Where our life’s intentions meet reality, a score card of sorts that hopefully leaves us with a smile that comes from meeting that day and doing the hell out of it.  Sometimes the scorecard leaves us uncomfortable, even a little dissatisfied with our day and a reminder to do better tomorrow.  And to make sure we are giving ourselves grace on those days we fall short.     

Sunsets are more a harsh critic, they do not care what I meant to do today.  They only see what I actually did today.  Sunsets are also a reminder that every amazing thing has an ending, they are predictable and just part of how the universe drives all of this.  One day at a time they say in lots of ways, I guess that is a silent reminder to let go in small increments, micro dosing our way along.  We don’t get to give permission for the day to end, it just does, every day just ends.  We can’t hold on to it, we only get to live inside each day while it’s here.  That is a reminder that every moment we have is truly a gift.

Watching a sunrise or sunset in the presence of the ocean just adds a massive layer to the experience, at least it does for me.  The ocean cares not about our plans, same as the sun cares little about our pace.  But together, they help give me a frame to measure myself against, and that is pure magic.  Sunrise reminds me I get a shot, sunset reminds me of how I did with that shot.  And the ocean, it just sits there reminding me how small I am and how small my problems are, and how damn fortunate I am to simply be playing the game.

I mentioned it had been 4,156 days since I left Florida.  That number sounds big, but most of those days, most all days really, blur together if I am honest.  What sticks are the ones where I actually showed up for them and made a difference.  And try to make sure I have more of those days than not.  That does not mean I was absent of sunrises.  I watched a great many of them over Mt. Hood, and various places around Oregon.  And I got to watch a great many sunsets over the pacific, but the lesson was never about where I was standing.  It was about whether I was paying attention to how the day began and how I finished it.   

I say all of that because I am excited to be heading to Florida next week for a 2 week break from all the things.  I am so looking forward to some beach sunrises and St. John’s River sunsets.  Some time to reflect on life, on where I am, on where I am going and what my next steps are.   And to sit with the ocean again, while it gives me that same reminder, the days are mine to live, they are not mine to keep, and that being part of the rhythm of the universe is a blessing and as good as it gets.

I am fortunate to be able to travel to Florida to sit with my old friend the Atlantic, sharing space with each other and listening for what might come next for me, whether I am ready for those answers or not.  And, of course I will get to hug the necks of friends I have missed for far too long. 

I Love Ya Damn it

Bride and I had lots of little things we did on purpose.  I have been thinking about some of those.  They say that a couple should never go to bed mad, I cannot recall any times we did, but I am sure there was a time or two.  One thing we did do, every time we parted ways, even for a quick run to the store, was to kiss each other and say “I love ya.”   It was just what ya did before ya walked out the door.  We said it again first thing in the morning, and again when we went to bed, I always kissed her in the morning and said Mornin Beautiful.

I always thought it funny when she’d ask, do you just say that now or do you mean it.  Funny because I knew no other way to be but in love with her.  It never felt like words we had to remember to say.  It was said with the simply act of making her coffee in the morning, putting way more cream in there than should ever be in there because I knew that is how she liked it.

I remember she entered a contest once that a Jacksonville TV station was doing leading up to Valentines day.  I wish I could find that note she submitted to demonstrate how much she loved me.  That was the contest, the morning news hosts would pick the best story of love from all the submissions.   The basic story was about making sure I had the best of anything, the example she used was coffee cups.  If we had two coffee cups and one had a chip in it, she would give me the unchipped cup and then she would take the cup with the chip in it.   Well, she won the contest which included a hotel on the beach for a weekend and a shit load of Peterbrooke chocolate goodies.  After that, I bought a new set of coffee cups.

Phone calls always ended the same way, I love ya or I love ya damn it.  Sometimes quick, sometimes dragged out a little bit just to be annoying.  When I spoke to her at 1:10pm on the day I lost her, she told me she was feeling puny and was going to lay down and take a nap.  Taking a nap when retired was nothing out of the ordinary.  The last words she heard me say were, I love ya damn it.  And she gave them right back to me, the last words I will ever hear her say were, I love ya damn it.

It was never about saying it for us.  It was all the small things done without even thinking about it.  It showed up in all the little nearly meaningless things we did to make each other smile, or make each other happy.  Like me randomly doing laundry.  Seems like that should be a split duty thing, but back in our first house we had to go outside through the carport to a very scary little room with our washer and dryer in it.

She made the mistake of telling me that if I could figure out a way to give her an indoor laundry room, I would never have to do laundry again.  Never was her word, not mine and I laughed, pulled out the saw, and chopped a hole from our dining room into what became an amazing laundry room.  We joked about that over the years, but she kept up her end of the deal, and was always very appreciative when I did do it. 

I sure do miss her.  I would trade every clean load of laundry just to hear one more I love ya damn it. 

Chapters with Missing Pages – Keeper of The Stories

Last night I was watching the sun go down on the back porch, just sitting with it all.  I had nothing else to do, nowhere to be, and just sat watching the sun go down.  In the stillness of that moment, I was reminded of my belief that life feels more like a train ride than anything else.  We get on, we start moving, and we really don’t know where the hell we are going or when we are getting off. 

We like to think we are in control of our lives, or even have a tiny ability to control the ride, but at the end of the day, we don’t.  I think that is the biggest missed opportunity in our lives, to get stuck thinking we do have some form or sort of control and operating under a false pretense the whole time. 

The universe spins on with a cosmic time clock, and it cares little about our brief time here as individuals.  Of course, the universe is using a cosmic clock that takes 13.8 billion years to spin around.  I find that perspective helpful, that we don’t matter in the grand scheme of things in relation to cosmic time.  I think that is a good thing for all of us to remember and ponder on every once in a while.

On our journey, I like to think of it as a train ride, we have people who join us on our ride, sharing a bit of the journey.  Some folks are only on for one stop, others a few stops, a precious few stay for years, and then there are those cherished few who ride along with us for decades.  Again, in the cosmic scheme of things, the odds are that number of cherished riders are always pretty small, I like to call them the one handers, because mostly you can count them on one hand.   The ones who when they call and need you, you go, period, and be with them. Like many did for me.

I also think each of us on our rides is playing out our own story, the story of our lives.  Or at least we are trying to play it out, the universe always has a say whether we like it or not.  So, at the end of the journey we have a book, full of chapters and hopefully full of adventures with all those who were on the train with us, regardless of how long. 

Our books hold our memories of those who rode with us, we are the keepers of all those memories.  We are also the keepers of our shared memories, as they are of ours.  When we lose someone, especially one of those one handers, you become the sole keeper of those shared experiences.  The first time that happened for me was when Alison Bodey died, I had known her since I was 4.  The next one was when Lyndon Boyer passed, I met him when I was 5 or 6. 

There are memories that I have that no one else has.  No one else knows them.  No one else knows the stories or the shared experiences.  I consider that a sacred honor to carry those, to reflect every once in while on those shared experiences.  To tell those stories to others can help me carry the weight of that responsibility.  Each of those for me, and there are others, was hard to pick up, they were heavy, and it is my honor to do that for them.

With Bride gone now, I feel an even larger responsibility to keep those memories alive.  I will start writing more about her on here, to be memorialized hopefully as long as the internet exists.  I feel like we had just gotten into our Midwest adventure chapter, it was just getting interesting, it hooked us.  And then all of the sudden, it stopped.  Not paused.  Not slowed. Stopped. 

A harsh reminder that I am not in control of any of this, no matter how much I think I am.  The rest of the pages in the chapter were ripped out, never to be read, experienced or shared with her.  Pages we didn’t even know we were going to love yet.  Actually, it feels like the rest of the pages in the book were ripped out, end of story.

But I know, the ride still goes on, the universe is not quite done with me yet, at least as long as my eyeballs keep popping open each day.  The universe has another chapter for me, even though I did not even get to finish the one I was in.    A chapter without my honey.  A chapter with no direction, no terrain maps, no weather reports, just the unknown.    I want those missing pages back damn it!

In many ways it is terrifying.  In many ways it is exciting.  In many ways I don’t want to take that first step or read that first page of this chapter.  In many ways, I cannot wait to take that step, to dive into the next chapter.  I don’t really know how to do either though, yet.  In the meantime, I wake up every day, write my three things down.  I keep taking steps, although not many feel like there is any forward momentum, yet.

Right now I am mad at the universe.  Mad that it does not care.  But maybe that is the deal, the cost of getting on the ride in the first place.  It was never going to care.  The clock keeps spinning, and I am still here, staring at a chapter I didn’t choose, wondering what the hell will come next.

The Oddest Things Happen When Our Person Dies

The oddest things happen when our person dies.  The aching pain remains the next day, the day after that and again the day after that, at least through the last 6 weeks, which is where I am at right now.  There have been 42 sunrises and sunsets.  There have been buses taking kids to school on 29 of those days, and I have paid some number of bills over that time.  The universe continues on, the earth continues to rotate, and life, for many, goes on.

One of my three things I am still writing down each morning now includes “say it out loud, she is gone and you are going to be OK.”   Some days I believe myself, and others it is harder to say out loud.  Those hard days, my stomach convulses and I almost feel like I am going to throw up.  Like most things, saying it out loud sounds different than just reading the words, a Brother from another Mother reminded me of that a couple of months ago. 

There is a tension in that sentence, she is gone, and you are going to be OK.  I don’t know how those two things are supposed to live in the same place.  One feels absolute, and the other feels nearly impossible.  And somehow, I am expected to carry both.  In some ways, I want to be OK now, and in others I want time to stop.  

It seems so odd to think about my person, my Beautiful Bride.  It always seemed like wife was sort of a role, versus a presence.  Beautiful Bride for me was always more than just wife, that is such a limiting word, at least in my opinion.  Sure, it encompassed that, but she was also my partner in crime, the one who would still do whiskey shots with me until we were properly polluted. 

She was my closest confidant, my wisest counsel, my best friend, and the one who knew more about me than anyone else ever could or will.  And I knew those things about her, she called me Gorgeous Groom, at least when she wasn’t calling me Smit.  For those who have found the love of their lives, you can probably understand why wife or husband does not fully encompass what your person means to you.  I wish and hope everyone can know what that feels like because it is the most amazing thing ever.  

And every morning, I remind myself, out loud, that she is gone.  I fucking hate that that is on my to do list every day.  The physicists say time does not work the way we think it does.  The past, present, and the future aren’t as separate as they might feel.  Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not.  But because part of me is still back there, with my person and part of me is here, paying bills and watching the school buses go by, I am not sure which is the truest. 

The Missing Future Tense

Over a month into this new part of my journey, one of the things I have been stumbling over now is what tense to use, what words are right in different situations.  For almost 4 decades, it was always “we.”  Not a choice, just the way things were.   We’ll check on those dates, we’ll get back to you, we appreciated it.  It was not something I ever had to think about, it just came out that way, it was automatic.  It was simply a part of we and us.  Now I am singular, me, myself, and I.

Now I find myself pausing, editing in real time, mid sentence, and as you can tell, I suck as an editor.   What I am noticing is the pause that wasn’t there before.  The sentence used to just came out.  Now, there is a moment where I have to decide who I am in it.  I have also found myself being deliberate in saying we, because that still feels more honest to me, even though I know it’s not.  I think it is simply muscle memory, a reflex built from years of repetition.

Being a Trekkie, who is currently rewatching Star Trek Discovery, I have been framing these thoughts about tense through the lens of time travel.  You know, she is, she was, we are, and so on.  Tenses in language have rules, past, present and future, clean lines around all of it.  Language expects things to stay in their own damn lanes.  Turns out, grief is more like a drunken sailor, weaving all over the place while shooting a bird at the established rules around tense. 

Some days she is, in the habits, in the voice in my head and the way I reach for something that is all her.  Some days she was.  And any thoughts or sentences with she was just land harder and hurt more.  Right now, I live between the lines, in one moment she is, in another, she was.  The one that is missing, is the future tense, she will, or she might.  That is the one I notice is gone.  I fucking want my future tense back!!

For example, when talking to the folks at our credit union when I removed her from our accounts, when we wrapped up I said, we really appreciate your help.  I did not correct myself because by the time I realized it, the conversation had already moved on.  From outside, nothing changed.  From the inside, I felt it.  In the grocery store, going down the aisle where the cherry mashes are thinking she’ll want a couple of those.  Or this morning sitting out on the porch admiring the growth in the bed we ended up planting full of wildflowers thinking she is gonna love this.  

In this moment, it feels like I am using language to navigate around the edges, where words break down and don’t fully describe things.  Every choice, made in real time, in the moment, the I, the we, the is, the was does not seem like just grammar anymore.  It feels more like selecting which version of reality I am standing in at that moment.

She was the grammar queen.  And if I am being honest, she’d probably be correcting my tense right now.  I think she’d insist that “we” is the right word.  And I’d let her correct all day long, just to hear her voice one more time.  She would also understand why I am living between the rules right now.