By Sarah E. Murphy

A decade before Chris and I were married in my mother’s garden on June 26, 2011, August 17 was our original anniversary.

2001 was our second time dating; we had spent August of 1998 “hanging out” at Capers and the Wharf, usually before or after spending time at our mutual friends’ house on Worcester Court. Although Chris was ready for a relationship that summer, I was still “getting over” someone whose emotional abuse I had confused for love. At that point, I still didn’t trust, and I made the mistake of thinking Chris was a “typical” guy. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The above photo was taken before we ever dated. I still have the scarab ring and Levi’s cutoffs along with the Billabong shorts and BC Ethic jacket Chris is wearing.

Three years after our first August romance, in 2001, I had just lost my “dream job” when I was laid off from the dotcom startup in Cambridge I had worked at for nearly two years. It was the morning after Road Race when I was told to pack up my belongings and turn in my security badge, so I went home to the Cape early that week to drown my sorrows in White Russians and beach time at the Heights.

On that Friday, the 17th, in an effort to cheer me up, Chris Bennett invited me to a cookout at the home of another mutual friend, Dave Lewis. But on our way to Dave’s house in Marstons Mills, we got in a car accident in front of Family Foods as were approaching East Falmouth lights. Some young kid, who should have been slowing down instead of speeding as he neared the intersection, rear-ended us with such force, Chris’ car was totaled.

The officer who arrived on the scene, Michael Gonsalves, told me how fortunate I was to be wearing my seatbelt, for if not, I probably would have gone through the windshield. I still think of that every time I get into a car. We both ended up with whiplash and Chris suffered back and neck problems and went to a chiropractor for months after.

I was deeply saddened to learn Michael Gonsalves died of cancer this past March, just three months before Chris. My heart goes out to his loved ones.

Needless to say, Chris and I never made it to Dave’s cookout that night. Officer Gonsalves drove us back to Chris’ house on Belvidere Road while Chris’ car was towed from the scene.

We ended up watching “Castaway,” and completely unprepared, I sobbed my eyes out over Wilson.

Twenty-five years later, I’m alone in what became our home on Belvidere Road. The other day, while cleaning out cabinets in an effort to distract myself from my new reality, I found a bottle of Calamine lotion from 2001. My heart began racing as I threw it in the trash, trying to process the fact it was still here and my husband wasn’t.

Dave Lewis died in 2010 at the age of 39, and Chris had the unfortunate honor of serving as a pallbearer for his dear friend. A few years before his death, they went on a snowboarding trip to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, and I just found photos of them, another discovery from yesteryear and a life once lived. They’re standing on top of a snow-covered mountain, Chris with his arm around Dave, both beaming as if they were in heaven.

While it gives me comfort to know they have undoubtedly reunited somewhere beyond this realm, I can’t help but feel left out that I wasn’t invited to the party this time.