A Night Out

Ammon and I have had some wonderful friends now for most of our married life. We met Travis and Christina as blushing newlyweds when we moved to Price, Utah and attended the College of Eastern Utah. Originally, Ammon and I were not active in the church, and when we started going to the young married student ward down there, Travis and Christina decided we needed to be 'fellowshipped', which is a nice way of saying that they figured we needed some friends in the church. They invited us to an overnight camp out with some other couples in the ward, intending to introduce us to Travis' brother and sister in law. However, after the camp out ended, we took home Travis and Christina's phone number, and not the brother. Ever since that weekend, we have shared countless hours together. We lived together briefly in Price, and several years later Travis and Christina occupied the basement apartment of Ammon's parents in Logan. We have spent many an evening staying up until the wee hours of the morning just sitting around talking, or more frequently, playing an elaborate card game called 'hand and foot'. Hand and foot can only be played with an even number of players, and when Ammon and I played games twice during the week that he died, it was that game that we played together. I was nervous about Travis and Christina coming, mostly because although we have shared many, many things together, it has always been in the context of two couples who enjoy each other's company. Currently they are living in Southern California, and it's a testament to the love we share for each other as friends that they traveled all the way to Ohio to spend about a day and a half together. It was bittersweet, but also wholesome. I missed Ammon terribly every second that they were here, but was grateful for the company and the shared memories that only the four of us understand. I know Ammon would have enjoyed this weekend, and that simultaneous makes it both more fun, and infinitely more difficult. Last night we got a babysitter for the kids and went out for dinner and some light shopping. I took them down to Newport on the Levee in northern Kentucky, and we decided on a Mediterranean restaurant. As I perused the menu, all I could think about was how many times I had eaten this type of food with Ammon. All of the items on the menu that I was familiar with were things that he had introduced me too: lamb, eggplant, gyros, kebabs, basmati rice. The ache of missing him was almost overpowering. It was just the sort of evening that we would have enjoyed, strolling happily hand in hand through the outdoor mall and enjoying some new dishes. Invariably, we would have ordered two separate dishes, and I would have liked Ammon's dish more than my own. He would have happily traded with me, and I would have basked in his love and companionship. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to be able to do anything or go anywhere without the painful memory of all that I shared with this man, and all that I am now missing in my life.