Have you ever noticed that the longer you are with someone the more their history, stories, memories and experiences become part of your own? I’ve often seen couples, who’ve been together a long time, share stories with us, not recounting which of them actually had the experience. Somehow, it doesn’t matter.
I know I’ve felt this with Bob, and I wonder if it’s because we are so familiar with each others’ stories, that we have transposed ourselves onto their canvas and now recall them as if we were actually there. I have to admit, when it happens, it makes me smile. This odd act of sharing connects us at another level. While we are both individuals, with distinctly separate pasts, this practice winds us closer. It’s not that we’re imposing on each others’ histories, more absorbing them into the current fabric of our life together.
Our lives have overlapped until the edges have become blurred. Who was there, who actually said what; who took the photo, smelled the lavender, tripped over the dog, spilled the wine or burned the stew doesn’t really matter. We were both there, at some level. Our shared and separate stories, the many layers of past experiences, are what brought us to where we are now. I’m OK with sharing all that with Bob. Whats mine is his, after all.