Decade

It doesn’t feel like ten years. But how else could we have fit in a first dance under the stars, a first kiss in a dorm room, a first trip to Nashville to meet your parents, a first hike in Gatlinburg where we were going to walk until the end before we realized we were on the Appalacian Trail, a first Broadway play that left us singing Abba years later, a first Mardi Gras in NOLA where you caught me a little green frog, a first graduation together, a first intimidating vegetable (artichokes) cooked, a first time making pickles, a first time saying vows in front of a crowd, a first time leaving the country together, a first dog, a first garden, a first house, a first kid to whom I gave that little green frog? Or how could we have had a second trip to Nashville, a second hike through the Arkansas wilderness where we at least realized we were on a super long trail, a second garden, a second kid? How else can you account for the wonderful parameters that mark our life together? 

A decade just doesn’t seem long enough.