As I walk sometimes I listen to music and there are some songs that, the moment they begin, unlock memories so vivid they feel like they’re happening all over again. For me, those songs always carry me back to Angela.
We had our favourites, the ones we’d dance to no matter where we were. I only have to close my eyes and I can still feel her in my arms—the weight of her leaning into me, the warmth of her cheek against mine, the quiet rhythm of our breaths as we moved together. Angela loved to twirl, laughing as she spun out and then came back to me, landing perfectly in my open arms, safe, certain, cherished. I can still see the sparkle in her eyes in those moments, a joy so pure it seemed to light up the whole room.
At our civil partnership in 2006, we danced in the outdoor amphitheatre, the air alive with laughter, music, and the warmth of our friends. That stage became our world, and as Angela twirled beneath the open sky, I knew that love like ours was something extraordinary.
I’ll never forget dancing on our wedding day, the two of us spinning in the conservatory with the sunlight pouring through the glass, her dress flowing around her like a wave of light. She was radiant, a more beautiful person than words could hold, and in that moment I thought my heart might burst with love.
One memory stands out more than all the others. The night before her first major brain surgery, when the air was thick with worry and unspoken fear, we found a moment to dance. Just the two of us. No words, no explanations—only the music, and us clinging to each other in that fragile, beautiful way. It wasn’t just a dance. It was a promise. A vow that whatever was coming, we were facing it together.
Angela was, and always will be, the great love of my life.
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