Twenty-seven years.

It’s not a number I think much about. Our life together has never been about numbers. I don’t feel the need to tally up each year like a convict scratching hashmarks on the wall, or a miser counting his pennies, or a besotted teenager tugging petals from a daisy.

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me…

Yes, she loves me, and I love her, and that, it seems, is enough. It’s what I do treasure and store up across the years, all those little moments when I’ve looked into her beautiful blue eyes and was overcome by the wonder of simply being with her.

She sees things I don’t notice. She makes me laugh when I want to cry. She understands my moods. I can talk with her about anything, and she tells me the truth. She inspires me to reach beyond the ordinary and accomplish things I thought were beyond my capabilities.

She turns up in my writing, now and again. I’m not sure if she notices–it’s not something I call to her attention, and there’s no single character I could point to and say, “There she is…that’s Ann.” She appears in fleeting glimpses: a glance across a crowded room, a stroll through a sunlit meadow, a scent, a whisper, a gentle word of comfort, the warmth of two hands clasped together. She inhabits all the best moments, those brief flashes of perfection I want to last forever.

Forever. That’s a long time. Twenty-seven years, plus many, many more.

But who’s counting?

Happy Anniversary, my love.


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