Fate wasn’t done with us when G. and I met over twenty-three years ago.
When I say that “life is long” it’s meant with an amazement that we would meet later in life almost past middle age, and have been together so long ever since.
Today is our nineteenth wedding anniversary from a day when we crept down the back stairs in G.’s piano shop, slipped out the door and drove to City Hall in a sudden swirl of a snowstorm where the City Clerk met us, a gentle smile behind his thick glasses. We were married with no witnesses in the courtroom of shiny golden oak, the wood grain flaming all over the place. We were quiet as we said vows that we had written ourselves.
When we drove home, G.’s workers hadn’t noticed that we had gone out. I started cooking dinner while George went out to tune a piano. I think we had duckling with an orange or cherry sauce with wild rice and braised endive on the side. He called to let me know he was on his way home and called me “Mrs.” For a fellow who had foresworn ever to get married, he was in love with the idea of it as soon as it happened. I, on the other hand, struggled vainly to maintain my independence for over a year, adjusting to marriage again after the first one had frittered itself away such a long time ago.
Today and every day herein, we acknowledge how lucky we are to be living with each other in a life of our own.
Thank you, dear Universe!