Dear Nice (do you remember when I called you that in that first email, oh so long ago?),
Three years ago, I put on a dress, you a suit, and we waited in separate rooms (in agony) for the Justice of the Peace to show up over an hour late, in a pickup truck with his dog in the back, wearing a Harley Davidson dress shirt (the preacher, not the dog) with his arm in a sling (again, the preacher… the dog was fine). And then we got married.
It’s been three years now. Three years of laughter, tears, fights, nagging, screw ups, make ups, love and, most importantly, unabashed happiness.
Three years together. It seems like ages ago I was picking out my wedding dress, my shoes and obsessing over just losing “one more pound”. It seems like seconds ago we shared our first kiss together as husband and wife, minutes ago since I moved to London. Time does confusing, funny things when you’re in love.
I would follow you to the ends of the earth. I hope you know that… you should… I’m in London for crying out loud. But I won’t just follow you place to place. I’ll follow you in my heart and in my soul, to the moon and back. You’re my other half, for better or worse. I go where you go.
One day, I’m going to look up and we’re going to be fifty, sixty even, with grandkids, and I’m going to be speechless as to how we got there. But I’ll smile, laugh, and be proud of the ride that got us to our rocking chairs on the front porch.
Here’s to another three years, thirty years and more. Here’s to our dreams, our wishes, our triumphs, our failures, our desires. Here’s to us.
I love you, my darling. Happy anniversary.