He was born 32 years ago today, in spite of his mother's attempts to terminate the pregnancy.
His face remains just as fresh in my mind as it was when we first met. I was only 13 at the time and had no idea that the brooding, long-haired 14-year-old in the leather jacket would become such an integral part of my very being.
Five years later we stood together before a magistrate, the hem of my dress fluttering as my entire body shuddered at the gravity of the promises we were making.
I can still taste that first kiss as his wife, still feel his breath warm on my ear as he murmured "not even death," sealing the eternal vow with a kiss as well.
Five years later, at the age of 24, he slipped into eternity, leaving me with only my memories and the son we were blessed with.
As the years pass, it seems so strange that I continue to age, while he remains forever young — my imagination unable to envision the man he would have become had he been given the chance.
Not a day passes that I do not think of him and even fancy I feel his breath warm on my ear.
I imagine that when it comes time for me to join him again, the wrinkles and scars and gray hairs he never saw will fade and I'll once again be a mere child, the hem of my dress fluttering, one vow remaining unbroken.