Last week, we read the love letters we’d saved, from the year before we wed. At the time we lived a continent apart. We’d been friends for 10 years, lovers for the first two. Do the math.
Yeah, 40. Go back two, and imagine a friend of mine leading her past me. I was a lump in the back of a VW van after a graveyard shift card-shuffling at IBM.
(And, yes, we’d viewed some Kodachromes of the kids those days.
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day.)
Time came that she, that friend, I, and another friend ventured west. The two friends got homesick, leaving mi esposa and I in this land that would be home. After ten years of adventures together and apart, it was.
We’ve grown from hippies to old farts in this house that’s as old as our marriage. Those letters. In one, she looked forward to being together 30 years, maybe more. Well? Pearls of wisdom.
Happy 30th, my love.
📑 Santa Fe, writing