You + me, at Mallory and Michael's wedding.
Hey, Guion:
I glanced over at you in church this weekend and thought for a moment about how immensely privileged I am to be your wife. As of today, we’ve been married one year, eight months, and two weeks. It’s flown by. I feel like we just moved here together, just bought a car, just learned who is a blanket hog (ahem) and who is simultaneously bossy and brooding when stressed (me, clearly, because stress rolls off you like water off a mallard). I’m always asking you silly questions like, “Do you remember walking down the aisle? Do you remember what a fail my bouquet toss was? Do you remember that watermelon we had during sunset at the cabin? Do you remember the immobile snake in the middle of the path?” Just because I want to be reminded that it really was almost two years ago, that it really did happen.
Marriage to you is more enjoyable with every passing day. Deep down, I half-expected the excitement to wear off a little. We’d settle into a routine, like they do in all those novels, and we’d have a pleasant, passive life together. How grateful I am that that’s not the case! It’s a Hallmark-y thing to say, but every day with you is exciting. It’s exciting because you’re fun and loving and generous in all the right ways, but it’s also exciting because I feel like I’m still getting to know you. You are full of surprises.
I love watching you do the things you love, whether it’s playing music, brewing beer, writing poetry, or even just talking about doing all of those things. You enter no project half-heartedly and you inspire me to be braver, freer, stronger. I love watching you work. You are humble and competent and generous. I am daily amazed that a man of your caliber would be willing and even eager to love me.
And so Valentine’s Day seems a little superfluous, frankly, because I don’t think I need a day set aside to be reminded of how much and how well you love me. You love me in all the little ways that I never thought I would want to be loved. Somehow, you knew that I felt loved when you emptied the dishwasher; when you started the tradition of holding my hand during the Lord’s Prayer before the Eucharist; when you let me talk about the intricacies of canine psychology for an hour; when you kiss me without warning; when you show me gentleness and patience when I do not deserve it.
I love you, dear. Thanks for showing me how to love well. With you, one little room is an everywhere.
Love,
Abby
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The Good Morrow
John Donne
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
-
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
-
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
