Mutual friends had previously set us up on a blind date, but the earlier encounter had been in a group and it wasn’t until
I imagine we’ll celebrate the wedding anniversaries to come with sushi dinners (our favorite) or perhaps with maybe even a trip or two. No doubt celebrating will get complicating as our family of two expands, should we be blessed with offspring (uh, don’t get excited-that’s not for several years). It will certainly be the day that our friends and family acknowledge and remember.
But we also don’t want to forget the day that we’ve been celebrating for so many years. I want to give credit to the little seed that bore all the possibilities of a grand Oak. May 11, will continue to bear a mark—usually a star or heart—on our calendar. It may not receive the same kind of attention, like the family dog replaced in rank by a newborn, but it will still be loved dearly. You can’t know where you’re headed, unless you acknowledge where you’ve come from.
The following is a poem that I wrote for my husband, who at the time this was penned, was still my boyfriend. It appeared in my chapbook, Blue Threads (Speed & Briscoe Books, 2001):
We lay on the silver
hood rib to rib—
a slow night of fire
flies dancing across
our summer of laundry,
ice cream from Dairy Queen,
cigarette smoking at the window.
He called me his apple,
lips tugging at lips—
tight knot of ruby
in his palm,
my heart in his teeth.
I had engraved on the inside of his wedding band, “mo cara, mo gra.” It is Gaelic for, “my friend, my love.” My husband is not the perfect man, nor am I the perfect woman.
But we are perfect for each other.
Happy 8th to us.