Do you remember, when we first met, how nervous I was, and how I stuttered?
How the car ran out of gas on our first date, and you acted like you didn’t believe me?
When you told me you loved that one thing I’ve been self-conscious of since elementary?
When we both first knew?
When I cooked BBQ in the smoker you bought me, and I burned the ribs, but you ate them anyway?
When you told me our secret?
When we were at the ball game and it was raining and stopping and we stayed in our seats?
When I forgot part of my vows?
When we ran out of gas again on our honeymoon?
When we bought that first drafty old house on 31st?
When we stayed up all night fighting about whatever-it-was, but wouldn’t go to bed angry? (I recall a few of those nights back then)
When we planned to go hiking at daybreak, but stayed in the tent all day and told stories and listened to the rain?
When I lost my job, and you reminded me that my work wasn’t me?
When I left to return the crib, and we cried?
When I forgot our anniversary, but you still (somehow) made it our best yet?
When we spent our month in the Alps writing and you read through that horrid manuscript of mine three times?
When you found the first gray hairs, and you said it made me look, what was it, “urbane?”
When you retired, and the walls of that classroom shook with the applause your students?
When you left that brochure about the hearing aids in my chair, and didn’t say anything?
When you were the last one there, and I was groggy, and for some reason I couldn’t say anything, and my lips felt tight, but you kissed my cheek — it was wet — and said you understood?
When there was nothing left but you?