A decade of marriage. The best decade. We have grown up together and we have grown together and we are raising grown-ups together. No small tasks.
I remember the stone-colored velvety-soft ribbed Patagonia pillow that saved our secrets and sustained our early lovemaking.
I remember indulgent nights on the lower east side with too many gimlets and bad dancing.
I remember our wedding day, and how the clouds broke just for you — the luckiest person I had ever met. I remember thinking that it wouldn’t dare rain on your wedding.
I remember meeting each of our children, astounded that we somehow created our own miracle, twice.
There have been tough times — infertility, job loss, family drama, and death — and there have been the more trivial and insidious beasts of profound exhaustion, lazy half-listening, irritability and impatience, and prolonged disconnection.
And yet, we have battled back. We always battle back.
And so through it all we have remained.
We said our vows. I still remember glancing sideways into the pews as you read yours, and seeing so many of my father’s friends crying.
That day we all witnessed what it meant to see a man man enough to be vulnerable and declarative and proud. You stole more hearts than mine, which of course you had already.
We said our vows and we have lived them. We see a challenge and we rise. We see each other and we smile. We embrace and we are home.