We have a narrow closet with a sloping roof tucked under the stairs between the kitchen and the bathroom. It's a hard space to use, so we mostly store things there that we don't get out very often. This afternoon I asked Liam to wiggle his way to the very back and pull out something I haven't opened for a very long time: the leather-covered box that holds all of our wedding and honeymoon pictures. I spent a long time turning the pages, with memories rushing back to me. How all the bridesmaids and I got ready at my parents' house, and my mom made us lunch by stuffing every possible bite-size frozen food she could find (chicken nuggets, cheese sticks, anything) into the oven. How Aunt Rita went to the nursing home to help my great-grandmother dress for the event, and we brought the wedding to her since she, at age 101, couldn't come to us. What a beautiful crisp, clear, bright fall day it turned out to be. How my dad, ever bashful when a camera is near, ducked his head as he walked me down the aisle. That my uncle Kent was officiating his first (but far from last) wedding in his official capacity as judge. The oh-wow-we've-really-done-something-huge-here feeling as Mike and I turned to face all our loved ones after the vows.
And now it's twelve years on, so fast I can hardly believe it. We've made a family we are so proud of. We've built a life that suits us pretty well. We've had adventures on both coasts and in more than a few places between. And there's still nobody I would rather spend time with than Mike, having rambling conversations about everything that crosses our minds, or sitting together and saying nothing at all.
When we first got engaged, my beloved Gram smiled and had this to say to me: "I married a man named Mike who was just a few months older than me, and look at how that's worked out." That's a pretty tough act to follow, but I feel like we are well on our way. Happy anniversary, Mike, and here's to dozens more to come!
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