|June 12, 2012
Flower this morning by our front steps.
Nineteen years ago, I was waiting for the flowers to arrive. Maybe they were late, maybe they were early – I don’t remember which. I don’t remember those sorts of details anymore, the minutiae of momentous days that you swear you will always preserve like the dried flowers themselves.
But this. This is one of the things I remember, still and always.
I remember someone telling me to remember the little moments, to find a way to grab onto the intangibles of our wedding day. To take a moment and look out into the crowd at our reception later that evening; to really, really look at the people gathered there because (they didn’t have to say it) someday they wouldn’t be. And that person (whomever it was, for I don’t remember) was right, because, like the song goes, some are dead (far too many) and some are living, but in my life I have, indeed, loved them all.
But in those moments of waiting for the flowers to arrive I was just sitting, listening to the music, and Mary Chapin Carpenter came on the radio, singing about comfortable beds that won’t hurt one’s back and pens that won’t run out of ink and full houses and time to think and passionate kisses and shouldn’t I have this, all of this, whoa, oh, oh.
And I danced and I sang – and I can’t dance at all, and my kids tell me to shut up when I sing in the car, but later at the reception my groom and I would go on to surprise everyone by doing both.
* * *
Nineteen years later, this is a low-key anniversary, the kind that we probably won’t remember. We’re not at a bed and breakfast this weekend, nor at the family beach house, where we have traditionally combined our anniversary and Father’s Day.
There weren’t any plans to begin with, but especially now so because The Husband took a tumble down the deck stairs over the weekend so he is celebrating our 19th anniversary with a concussion. (He passed the memory tests at the doctor’s yesterday, so we have all good reason to think he will be OK.)
Our big gift to each other will be a garbage disposal, and we couldn’t be more excited, honest to God. A larger-than-life expense check from work (thanks to a crazy schedule of late) makes this and the fixing of the leaky pipe in the basement possible.Talk about things like comfortable beds that won’t hurt one’s back (got an achy-breaky one of those today, too), a garbage disposal is high atop my list of what I want for my anniversary.
Well, OK, that and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s new CD “Ashes and Roses” which releases today and which is my anniversary gift from The Husband. As in:
Me, on Saturday, before The Concussion: “You didn’t get me an anniversary gift yet, did you?”
Him, laughing: “Of course not.”
Me: “Oh, good! Then I’m going to order myself Mary Chapin Carpenter’s new CD. [I’m old-fashioned that way.] It comes out on Tuesday.”
Him: “Happy Anniversary.”
That’s what happens, I suppose when you reach these sorts of digits, and that’s OK. After 19 years, passionate kisses and garbage disposals are, to quote one of my other favorite singers, the stuff that dreams are made of.