On Our Anniversary

(Well, technically, this is eight days before our anniversary, but you know I'm terrible at waiting to give presents.)

How long have we known each other now, eight years?

I think we met on April 4^th, 2002. And I’m certain it was a Thursday. And I’m doubly certain it was between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. That attention to detail sounds more romantic than it is, since I would wager you remember the exact same things. Hopefully I’ll remember all of this on our 75^th anniversary too (which, by the way, would make me 99 and you 98, and since I’m planning on living to at least 118 so I can see the year 2100, it seems a good possibility to occur).

I told you I would marry you (or you would marry me, or both) that same day - that first day - which is weird because I don’t recall saying that to anyone before or since, especially when I didn’t know your middle name, or your shoe size, or your mom’s name, or if you were a dog person, or if you could recite the entire starting lineup for the 1995 World Series Champion Atlanta Braves.

What’s also strange is that you didn’t contradict my marriage request/demand, especially since you didn’t know about my chest hair, or my glasses prescription, or my irrational fear of slugs, or my dislike of talking on the phone, or if I knew all the words to “Jolly Holiday” from Mary Poppins.

I’m reasonably certain all you knew about me was from what you saw on the t.v. show (yikes), and all I knew about you was you dressed sensibly for the weather (orange-striped t-shirt and jean skirt that stopped just above your knees).

And that’s all it took, I think. Kind of annoying, right? Waiting for love and looking for love and hoping for love, and then all it takes is two hours with a stranger and you’re hooked for life. Thanks for making it so easy.

***

What isn’t easy is trying to remember a time before I loved you. Sometimes I’ll think about my freshman year of college and you’ll have infiltrated my memories and be eating breakfast with me on a Saturday morning at Valsetz, or helping me dye my hair orange, or making sure Brandon doesn’t drown in the shower. Sometimes I’ll think about high school, and there you are again, going with me to a dance, or watching Monday Night Raw (double yikes), or cheering me on from the bleachers as I’m freezing to death in the outfield in Sisters as it snows.

Remember that time in seventh grade when I fell out of the tree and almost landed on that pile of bricks? Remember when we were about 10 and went camping and saw a bear with Trevor and Zach? Remember when I was knocked unconscious after Adelino hit me in the head with a softball bat when we were five?

Of course, you couldn’t have been there, because you were in Plano, and Lake Oswego, and Newark, and Chico, and Portland. But it feels like you were there.

I think if we met today, or tomorrow, or yesterday, I would have no choice but to love you. Maybe we’d both be married (you to Matt Stornetta, and me to Natalie Portman), and maybe we’d both have kids (you would have Anne Elizabeth and Daniel James, and I would have Jackson Cloud and Bailey Gravedigger), and maybe you’d be an Officer’s wife, and I’d be an AmeriCorps representative, and maybe I’d be outside as you passed on your bike, and maybe…

You know this already, but I don’t necessarily believe in soul mates. I don’t think God is cruel enough to make only one person to perfectly match with one other person (although God also made a 20-foot, 2000-pound crocodile named Gustave who lives in both Burundi and children’s nightmares, so clearly God’s cruelty knows no bounds). But if, somehow, that turns out to be true, well, thanks again for making it so easy.

***

I still haven’t found an adequate way to tell you I love you, but here is another attempt.

Sometimes I’ll catch myself watching Kalaya without realizing it, when she’s playing or eating or sleeping or something. I’ll start thinking about how much I love her, and how beautiful she is, and how there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe and content.

Then I’ll think about how the whole process of parenting is about learning to let go of your children, because pretty soon she’ll be walking (which means walking away) and talking (which means talking back) and doing all these things to find her independence. And then I think about how I hope I’m good enough for her, and that I won’t be anything less than an amazing father, and that she’ll always know how much I love her.

Then I think about you, and it occurs to me that whatever happens in her life, she’ll be just fine, because she has you inside her. And that makes me think about how lucky someone will be to love her one day, just as I love you. And then I kiss her forehead, because it’s like kissing both of you.

Happy Fourth Anniversary, my love! I heart you!