I knew I’d marry you the moment I saw you. You were wearing your faded red USA swimming shirt, your shaggy hair tossed across your forehead as you RipStik-ed past the in-office tree-house.
I remember texting Anna and telling her, I think I’m in love with someone I just met.
Our first “real-job” assignment had us working together to plan an international running race. A trip where I was in charge and you were my co-pilot. A foreshadowing of life to come.
You carried Field Notes in your back pocket as you jotted down details about the venue and the needs for the project, which we reviewed at the restaurant while eating Poutine.
We traveled for relaxation, for running, for romance. We were friends and then not and then together for certain.
We quit our Chicago jobs and called our parents, in that order, to tell them the news. We were off on an adventure to travel some more, live out of our backpacks, and see the world.
We each went back to our parents to reset and figure out what to do next.
When I got a job back at my alma mater, you helped move my belongings into a dorm room apartment, where college freshmen blasted music above me, and drunk students stumbled past my door at night. After my first day on the job, I called you crying saying I made a huge mistake. You reminded me that I’m never stuck and helped me pack.
We found remote jobs, packed up your Honda Pilot and drove west to Santa Fe. We hiked, explored, longed for community and realized we needed to come back ‘home’ to the Midwest.
I found a job first, and a cute little rental house. A two bedroom so we could pretend we didn’t actually live together, even though we did.
You drove over 1,900 miles with a ring in your pocket and never told a soul.
On our last day of a two-week vacation with my family, you asked me to go for a walk on the beach one last time before we left.
“I’m good," I said.
“You should go, Emma”, my Mom pushed, having recently heard why this walk mattered.
I ranted about work, about what’s next, and you asked to change the subject. I kept chatting and you weren't by my side. I turned around and there you were, on one knee telling me we didn’t have it all figured out but there’s no one else you’d want to figure it out with.
I said yes.
We planned a wedding. Got married. You took the reins of the Honeymoon, so off to Slovenia we flew.
We bought a house west of town and ate sushi on coolers in the dining room.
We got pregnant and entered a pandemic. We watched Tiger King and The Office reruns to distract from the unknown, baked bread, and painted the nursery. You repainted it when I tried to do it myself.
You documented each step of labor and held my hand when it all got real.
We learned what it meant to have a baby; how to swaddle, how to sleep intermittently, how to survive.
I told you I was pregnant again. You smiled and said that would have been an awesome Father’s Day gift for tomorrow.
I told you the story of the red t-shirt and the RipStik and how I knew you were the one. You told me, ‘don’t be ridiculous.’
We enter year six of marriage next week and when you came down to breakfast in that faded red shirt, which is now pink, I can’t help but say, “I told you so.”
TY to
for help on this one.
This is the kind of story that reminds that life can be poetry, spoken slowly and sweetly.
Gah the feels! Happy anniversary!