30

30 years.

3 Bridesmaids, 3 Groomsmen, only one of each not carried away by time and distance.

1 Rental house with brown shag carpet where we learned to be married.

1 Tiny yellow house, now painted gray, where we started our family. We drove by it the other day and smiled and agreed that we were happy there. Happy in the way that you are when it’s all before you and when you’re too young to understand how happy you really are.

3 trips to the hospital for 3 boys, now 3 men. 3 Christenings, 3 Confirmations, 3 Graduations. All the noisy, messy, goodness that is raising children, the joy of seeing them starting their own lives. The sweetness and the bittersweetness.

5 funerals, 1 for a life short and tragic, 4 for lives long and wonderfully lived. Our teachers all.

Trips, too many to count, to the ball field, to the beach, to parks, to the hospital, to camp and so many happy hours in the woods. When I fall behind on the trail, I look up and see him looking back to be sure I am coming. And he waits for me to catch up. Always.

Meals and holidays and laughter and tears and science projects and flat tires and trips to the grocery store and taxes. The best moments of our lives and the worst, and every moment in between, we stand, sometimes apart, sometimes very close, but always side by side.

30.

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