Heather and I just recently hit the 25 year mark for our
marriage. I love her attitude about it. “Honey, it’s just another year. What is
so special about 25? Is it more important than 26?” Granted she is not a
romantic, but I admire her practicality. Her comment is fraught with meaning.
At the very least, it means I have at least one more year before she kicks me
to the curb. But I know that statistically speaking, we are an anomaly. We lost
a child to cancer---we should have already divorced. I suspect that if that couldn’t
tear us apart there really isn’t much that could.
The good news for me is that I caught her young, before she
had enough sense to suspect I wasn’t the greatest catch in the world. Now that
she knows better, she also knows that twenty five years to train a man is way
too much time to throw away in hopes of getting another one of higher quality.
Besides, I am no fool either. The chances of me scoring another girl like her
are zip. I went yard. If she leaves I am going with her.
I also think she suspects I love her. I laugh now at the
sappy, moon-eyed love I used to declare for her when we were dating or the
passionate, all consuming, conflagration I called love when we were first
married. Twenty-five years later love is so much more steady, so much more
informed in what matters most. I am married to a woman of noble character,
tested in the fires, tenacious and loyal and loving. Once upon a time I just
thought I loved her. Now I know I love HER.
I love this woman who reads my mind and tells me what to do,
who has given me every truly good thing in my life, and who loses everything
from her keys to her coffee cup. I’m not going anywhere. I suspect twenty-five
years is just the under graduate program for how to love my wife. I’m gonna
work on my masters for the next twenty-five years.
No comments:
Post a Comment