Five Years a Writer

If you had told the 18-year-old strident feminist me that I would, in my somewhat-softer fifties, rejoice in the wearing of a wedding band, that younger me would have laughed you out of the room.   First, that younger me knew that same-sex marriage wasn’t (at the time) possible (and had no faith in politicians to change that any time soon) and, second, even if it were, that younger me knew she would never choose it. Voluntarily submit to the state’s sanction of my relationship? Ha! Forget about it, sister. Wouldn’t ever happen. So, imagine my surprise when, at the age of 53, getting married was exactly what I wanted to do.  By that time, same-sex marriage had been legal and possible in Canada for about ten years, but tying the knot with, Val, my long-time partner still held no appeal for me. I had no need. No interest. No plans.  Then cancer struck her for the second time and Val no longer seemed invincible, nor our relationship unshakable. Suddenly, it was time to sta