71

Five years and eleven months ago, my wife and I were married in a gorgeous outdoor ceremony, presided over by a nervous rookie preacher and a cavalcade of family and friends. I have only one picture on my desk here at work, and it's a silver oval encasing a moment in time just before the ceremony. My wife in her gown and I (with more hair and painful plastic shoes) in a rented tux stare into each other's eyes in one of those posed moments that only wedding photographers can talk you into.

I'm looking into her eyes, our mouths are weary from smiling. The sky plays cloud-sun-cloud with us, but somehow, through all the photography domination and background static, we are together in a quiet moment. In our hearts, we've been married long before this moment. Everything that follows past the image-capture of the photo is a mere ritual done for the family and friends, and part of a not-so-secret plan to squeeze as many gifts as we can out of them.

Every 19th, I look back at our wedding day, and I can't believe I'm so lucky. I can't understand the organic calculus of love or devotion or any of the good things that make the world go 'round, but I try, in my own clumsy way, to acknowledge its power the 19th of every month.

My darling, I love you. Happy 71 months. How about dinner and movie tonight. There's this new film opening, some indie flick about revenge and ornate religions and political corruption. Do you remember how six years ago today, a month before the mania of our wedding, we stood in line for another indie film about a little kid who would one day grow up to be a tyrant? Back then, it was our last major date night before I moved out to Seattle to set up the apartment and start my new job. Now, six years later, and a month before our six-year anniversary, let's go out again. Let's look at the screen and smile and hold hands and understand, albeit silently, that we would not have it any other way.

I love you.