19 years as of today. 19 years, sometime after 1 p.m. Seattle time, you said yes. I don’t remember much else. Flashes, I think. Important parts after the names and faces. I remember us. I remember a tapestry of a crowd. I remember it didn’t rain. I remember the white archway. I remember a rookie preacher, us being his first marriage. Your sister sang, a friend of ours did a reading. It was fast, the whole thing. I think the tapestry of the crowd was more excited than we were. We knew what we wanted. I think sometimes the wedding is for other people. No, look, really, we are doing this. We are a for-real couple and we dressed up to say things and you will give us gifts and no there won’t be dancing.
I think we wanted it over with. I think this was a formality, some kind of ritual that we had to do for everyone’s benefit. But we knew already. We knew that having words spoken or rings exchanged wouldn’t matter. We were already there, at that place that the ceremony was supposed to symbolize. Everyone else was catching up.
Now we are here, 19 years distant. Between that and how long I knew you before, you’ve been part of my life for more than half of it now. It’s the better half, without a doubt. I can only hope I do the same for you. I love you.