Twenty-Seven Years

Here’s a view of what I’ve been seeing while writing in a hotel in Portsmouth, New Hampshire this morning. I like the seagull chirps, or are they cries or caws? Although my husband and I came to this gorgeous coastal city near where we got married to celebrate our anniversary, as we walked to breakfast he asked if I’d like some time to write today. I said, “Yes.”

Our very simple wedding vows included the usual for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, but not: and Jeannine should have time to write every day. But promised or not, he’s always made sure that happens. It’s one of the many things I love. Along with today’s great idea to turn the couch to face the window.

In the afternoon we walked by the ocean as we did on the evening of our wedding. I won’t post a picture of my nineteen-dollar dress and sandals. No pictures of the back yard, though it was filled with happy faces, or the carrot cake I baked, piling lopsided layers, though I remember it as being quite delicious. Wildflowers picked by Karen and other friends that morning. The floral wreaths my friend Sue made for me and my sister, the bridesmaid. Peter looking giddy and excited and ready to pack my secondhand electric typewriter, along with his ink, brushes, and paper wherever we next might go.

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