peoniespink

Twenty. Last year I cheated and put up an archived post from a past anniversary. And while I’m proud of that piece and still stand by the sentiment, I regretted doing it. In retrospect, I wish I had found the right words to sum up the moment. But the words decided to play a game of  hide and seek—and no matter how closely I looked, they evaded me. So, I took the easy way out and pulled an archived anniversary post.

This year is different. Let the damn words hide. I will make up new ones. Because you don’t reach this landmark without stopping. Without stopping, reflecting, and putting up a sign that says, “We were here. And we’re still very much in love.”

So, twenty. Today we reach that landmark where we  can look back and see as many years married as not. Half of our lives we’ve journeyed together with conjoined names and linked hearts. And every day is a blessed day. We can look you straight in the eye and tell you without guile that we know the meaning of “For  better or for worse.” But unlike our earlier selves, we also know that the worse is not to be feared or avoided or endured. We are wiser, if a bit more wrinkled. We are happy, if a bit overwhelmed with life at the moment. We are still married.

And we are still very much in love.

It has not been without work. Or tears. We are pock-marked and scared by this life. And I’m not about to sugar-coat the losses. But again and again, I come back to you. It’s your hand in the horror that holds me close. It’s your voice in the darkness that keeps me sane and reminds me: we are still married. We are still very much in love.

And it will not always be so scary and so hard and so fraught with meaning. Life will cycle back again, and someday soon we will find ourselves at another anniversary—calmer. We will still be married. And we will still be very much in love. For better. For worse. Again and again. It’s this promise I’m keeping.

Happy Anniversary, IZ. I love you. More than these words. So, so much more.

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.
~~Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926)