without and before him

She tells her story, and he listens

though he's heard it a million times over,

his eyes & his smile tells you it's his first.

She tells her story, the one of the life she had before him,

yet he becomes her memories,

her memories become his.

There is no story, without or before him.

Sixty-five years later, they sit

tea cup in hand, talking about their lives

in first-person narrative

and in these quiet moments,

during an after-dinner tea,

I watch them,

the love thick in the space,

they share as their own,

I hear them,

the words one feels,

and the other speaks...

and I realize that this, this

is what marriage is-

A shared story; two narratives folded into one

so intimately bound,

it is impossible for even the authors to determine where one ends

and the other begins

And I lay here, now in the crest of night,

your arms fold around me, your hand tucked in mine

and the rise and fall of my own thoughts,

begin to match the rhythms of your sleeping breath

In this silence I listen to our own story,

Six, not Sixty years long,

but already it tells of the messiness of heart-break and tragedy,

the strange beauties of redemption and struggle,

the grief and celebration of a love, not always whole,

but always beating towards life.

And in this silence, in our short story

I understand for the first time, the overwhelming beauty and awe of

forever.

And this hand, this sleeping hand in mine,

is no longer just my best friend's,

but my husband's.

And I realize, at this moment, more strongly than ever before,

that I will hold this hand, until it is old, until it is wrinkly

until it too, someday holds a cup of tea,

in a warm soft room, after dinner

and tells our story to those who came after.

You'll tell this story,

and I will listen, though I've heard it a million times before,

my smile and my eyes, will tell you it's my first.

.......

..... I look forward to the day,

that you become my memories,

and I become yours.