Has it been 15 years already?

Fifteen years ago today we were married in an outdoor ceremony on top of a mountain.  It was breathtaking and scary at the same time.  It was marriage two for both of us and neither of us had planned to get married again.  Strange how things happen.

I think we’ve all heard the statistics: Half of all marriages end in divorce or something like that. I choose to ignore statistics. For one thing, I’m on marriage two. If statistics hold, I’m good. Half of my marriages already ended in divorce. Ba Dum DUMP! Oh come on, that was funny! 😀

Awhile back I wrote the verses below, not specifically for Hubs and I, but as a celebration of all the couples who keep the love alive.

Anniversary (2002)

“Experience,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck,
“makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Hmm,” I mumble. “I think that’s ‘absence.'”
“Nah,” he replies. “Trust me on this.”

Wrapped around each other like ribbon on a birthday gift,
we linger, while outside the sun makes its cautious appearance
through dirty gray clouds.

“Experience,” I begin, twirling the shower taps, “is blind.”
“Ah, I think you mean ‘love is blind,'” he replies,
smiling at me in the mirror over the sink,
where age spots and wrinkles are highlighted in
glaring fluorescence.

“Trust me on this,” I use his words.
Giving his love handles a squeeze, I step under
the steamy torrent with a grin.

Fifty years together equals experience.
Experience in both sad and happy times;
in rich and poor periods;
in days peaceful and hectic.
Together we share the experience of a lifetime.

It was either this or a hysterical rant

Well probably not literally hysterical.  Since it would be written and all.  Not to mention that it took two days to write.  Trust me, this is better than the rant.  Which has been relegated to the drafts folder with a few others, all too inappropriate to post publicly.


(2002; rev’d 11/03)


Hand in hand we haunt the museum,

visiting Manet, Degas, Gauguin;

wandering from paintings to sculpture;

giggling like embarrassed adolescents

at the nudes poised on pedestals.


“Don’t put me on a pedestal,” you said.

“I won’t,” I responded. 

“Pedestals are for perfection,” you added,

“and I’m not perfect.”


“No one is perfect,” I replied.  “Until

someone loves them.”


I think maybe I’ll put you

up on that pedestal after all.