When you live 36 years as a single person, there is a strange thing that happens.
There are huge important chunks of your life that your future someone will be completely unaware of through firsthand experience. They will not have lived life with you, they will only get the retelling, which is forever clouded by time and emotion.
My someone will never know my Dad, how he was larger than life, loud, bold, with an amazing singing voice, and whip smart.
My someone will never know my Step-Dad, scholar, poet, kind to the end. They will never know how he suffered, or how my tiny mom cared for him.
My someone will never know Retail Linda, working nights and holidays, and loving and slaving for a company and ideal. They will never know those 15 years of Stockholm Syndrome fueled servitude, loving it, hating it, needing it.
My someone will never know a lot of things.
I went to the dermatologist a few weeks ago and had a big ghastly mole removed. It was smack dab in the middle of my back, jutting out awkwardly, out if sight and reach from me, but always a cause for concern and angst in the summer months. I told the dermatologist that it was time- it needed to go. And after the knife quickly sliced it away, and as I saw the familiar shape of this strange protrusion being held in tweezers in front of me for the first time, I got strangely sad.
My someone will never know that mole.