Twenty-seven
Our wedding anniversary came and went without fanfare. No posts on social media. No gift exchange. No dinner date. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I’m okay with that.
You might not believe that, but it’s true. I’m not much of a romantic in ways that are common I suppose. Yet, I can honestly say that all the best things in my life have come as a result of meeting the Carpenter. My best friend.
If life has taught us anything, it’s that the big moments aren’t the ones that matter. It’s the little gestures every day (except those unpleasant gestures we exchange during a football game, which are offensive but amusing) that matter to us.
It’s the kindness of leaving coffee for the other when we’re on different shifts. It’s putting down our phone when the other is talking to us because we respect one another to listen, even if it’s a repeated story.
It’s when he picks up my favourite snack when he knows I’ve had a rough day, or when I surprise him with his favourite treats when they weren’t on the grocery list. Folding the towels and putting them away. Oh baby.
The morning of our wedding anniversary, I left for work before the sun came up, so our “happy anniversary” moment was a quick, sleepy goodbye. I came home that night, took two Tylenols and crashed. Romance would have to wait. Again. Life happens.
One tradition that has carried us through good times and seriously less fun ones has been our spontaneous dances in the kitchen. It’s our thing. It’s romantic because it’s genuine. It’s being present in the moment without a plan beyond the need to embrace, sing, move together and laugh – or, on occasion, just hold each other through the challenges of this human experience together. In sync. Our rhythm. Singing out of tune, but tuned in to the only person who has walked beside us through it all. Together.
The day after our anniversary, I had another shift to get to, so while I cleaned up my breakfast dishes, I was playing the radio. The Carpenter was weather-proofing windows in our three-season room and I could see him trying valiantly to work with Margot, our new puppy, nipping at his heels for attention.
Maybe you don’t believe in signs, but I do. The radio began to play our wedding song, Blue Rodeo’s Lost Together, a song whose lyrics feel as relevant now as they did during our first dance 27 years ago. I tapped on the glass to get the Carpenter’s attention. “They’re playing our song,” I yelled out. He gave me a thumb’s up.
I kept loading the dishwasher while singing along, when suddenly the Carpenter appeared beside me, took my hand, placed his other at my hip and spun me around to finish the song in a slow dance in the kitchen. A stolen moment in the early morning. That’s so us.
That’s when Margo, the four-month-old puppy, thinking we were playing, leapt in and bit me on my posterior. Yelp. That ended the dance, but it didn’t ruin the moment.
In our relationship, we’ve learned that romance isn’t a sprint, it’s endurance. Kind of like puppy training. Worth it, but it’s work.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
