Twenty

Twenty years of birthdays and Christmases, Labor Day Weekends and New Year's Eves. Twenty years of bedtimes, nap times, and dinnertimes. Twenty years full of births and losses of all kinds.


Twenty years ago we sat on my dorm room floor and watched the Oscars. I don't recall which movies were in the running for Best Picture, who was nominated for Best Actor or Actress, or which song nominated for Best Song persisted on the radio.


All I remember from that day are the six white magnetic poetry words, a sign of the era, on the floor as I returned from the bathroom.


"Will you be my girl friend?"


Relieved at the reciprocation of my secret fondness, of course I reply yes. You knew I would. You wouldn't have asked if you weren't sure of the answer.


It's not an anniversary which receives much acknowledgement. If it weren't the day before your birthday, we'd probably miss it every year. It's not a day because of which I changed my name or began to wear a ring on my left hand. But it's more important than those other days, because without the magnetic poetry day, those other days wouldn't exist.


I love you and hope for twenty (or forty) more years.



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