It occurred to me today that we first met in 1986. I've known my husband for twenty years, more than half my life. He's still the same boy who sent me those forlorn letters while I was in Korea. Still the same boy who pressed his barbershop quartet into joining him to serenade me--they showed up on the doorstep one night while I was staying with a family friend in Maryland, entirely without warning, and put all the old songs to work. We split up while we were in college, got back together after graduation, and then took turns proposing to each other every three months until it stuck.
The year leading up to our wedding was my first year in grad school, a year of seventeen ice storms, with bonus heavy snow every Wednesday, like clockwork, well into April--Dan was in an auto accident three days after Christmas that year, so we got to drive through the pelting ice again and again to physical therapy and the chiropractor, and then to look at china patterns and designs for wedding invitations. We meant it about marrying each other--really, really meant it. Stubbornness is a virtue. A blessing, at the very least.
Here's hoping for another seventy or so years of slumber party.