You were sitting across from me in that tiny diner down the street from our office. The sun cut through the clouds and when I looked up the sunlight had caught your blue eyes. I was mesmerized.
I can't remember a thing you said that day. Probably something about Bob Woodward or Watergate or Superman. Who knows. Because all I remember are your eyes.
I went home and Mom asked me how it went.
"He has the most beautiful blue eyes," I said dreamily.
"Oh, Lord. We're in trouble," Mom said .
She was right. Four years later I was a trembling mess at the front of the church. You seemed pretty calm then, but later you told me you that you were as nervous as I had been.
There is something about the number "four" with us, apparently. Four years after Rev. R pronounced us "Man and wife," (actually, I still can't remember that little Irish man ever saying that. Can you?) we were sitting in a hospital room, holding a small human being. He looked up at us with eyes filled with more wisdom than a child only a day old should have. We were hooked, we were transformed, we were changed forever.
We've had our bad days. We've snipped at each other. I've slammed doors; you've stomped into the rain and snow. We've failed at communicating. I've wanted to slap you; you've wanted to strangle me.
We've laughed. We've cried. We've shared secrets. We've held hands and sometimes we even find time to cuddle.
It's been seven years of marriage, 11 years of friendship. Can you believe it?
Neither can I.
Recent Comments