On our last night in Massachusetts, after strolling through Boston in the frigid air, we cleaned ourselves up and sat down to a warm, classy dinner on the harbor. I looked across the table at this beautiful, smiling, playful, and witty woman, literally glowing in a white sweater from the trees lit behind her, and experienced something out of body, like it wasn’t me, sitting there, with her, like it must have been someone else, someone on the verge of a proposal. Then periodically, I would drift back into myself and remember, “Oh wait. Holy crap. I’m her husband. I married up!”
Here’s to seventeen and a half years, or thereabouts.
