You Won’t Last a Year

On the deck of a mountain cabin a few weeks ago, I sat with Donna and held her hand. We watched the mountains.

I thought, we could have done this from home. We have a deck. I could hold her hand on it.

But we couldn’t, not really. At home the daily worries and the grief live in the rooms. At the cabin I could lay them down for a few days and just be with my wife.

Thirty-five years ago today, I had been twenty-one for two days. She was eighteen. We eloped at a courthouse with two friends and a judge eating his lunch.

Someone told us, “You won’t last a year.” Most of our people thought the same.

But here we are. Her hand is in mine. The mountains are in front of us.

I Love You MORE, Donna.