A Long Conversation

If these walls could talk, they would laugh for thirty-five years before a word was said.

That’s what I always tell people.

And it’s true.

“Will you marry me?” 
“Of course, I will.”

Between the difficult conversations, woven alongside whispered prayers, before the moments when life brought us to our knees, there was laughter.

And lots of it.

On May 18, my husband and I will celebrate thirty-five years of marriage.

If I had to describe our relationship in a single phrase, it would be this:

A long conversation.

            “You’re going to be someone’s parent.”  
			“Oh, God.”

Thirty-five years of words, some whispered, some shouted, some spoken through tears, some through laughter.

“I’m afraid.” 
“Me too.” 

There were the early years when our oldest son needed more than either of us knew how to give, and by the end of each day, we were too tired to do much more than fall into bed and hope we had enough strength to do it again tomorrow.

That is how hard those years were.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it.” 
“Just hang on. I'll get us through this.”

We have stood together in hospitals, funeral homes, veterinary offices, at festivals, before sunsets, in other countries, on boats, in waters too clear and blue to believe, and everywhere in between.

“Dad has cancer, and it’s terminal.” 
“Oh, no.”

We have buried parents and siblings.

Parented without a manual.

Worried about money.

Prayed for our children.

And asked questions neither of us could answer.

“Do you think he’s happy?”  
“I don’t know.” 

My husband is not the kind of man who arranges surprise weekends or remembers to bring home flowers for no reason.

“How can we drop our eighteen-year-old son off and drive 1,000  		miles home?” 
“We don’t have a choice.”

He loves unceremoniously.

He vacuums when I’m annoyed with something he did or didn’t do instead of saying he’s sorry.

He drops me off under the canopy when it rains.

“Are you asleep?” 
“I was until you asked me that.”

He never forgets to kiss me hello and goodbye.

He has worked hard for thirty-five years to provide for our family.

Just this past weekend, I told our younger son,

“That’s the measure of a man.”

And I meant it.

“I wish I had a house on the California coast.” 
“I wish I had bigger calves.” 

He is corny.

Funny.

Dependable.

And a crazy, amazing dad.

“The vet says we have to put her down.” 
“I can’t.”

He is also my very best friend.

And vice versa.

“Before I die, I have to eat pasta in Rome.” 
“Don’t worry. You will.”

We are not the same people who stood at the altar thirty-five years ago.

Thank God.

Literally.

“Why do I always have to decide what we’re eating?"
“Because you’re better at it than me.”

We are older, softer, wiser, sillier, and more faithful.

And after thirty-five years, we are still talking.

Still listening.

Still laughing.

Still choosing, day after day, to remain in the conversation.

“Would you marry me again?" 
“Hell yeah, why?” 
“Just curious.”

And if these walls could talk, they would start by laughing.

For a very, very long time.