When We Grow Old

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We married when I still had a "teen" at the end of my age.

Some people cautioned us about such a young marriage. They said that we wouldn't finish college. They said that the first year was hard, that we would fight about the toilet paper roll.

In actuality, the first year was a DREAM-come-true. We lived in a 364-square-foot studio apartment, the third floor of married student housing on the campus of Northern Arizona University. You biked to class; I walked. In the end, I graduated with my B.A. in two years. You finished in three. Then, we both got masters degrees too because we couldn't satiate the desire to learn.

We never did fight about the toilet paper roll. Actually, we never really fought at all. Even now, we rarely fight. Sure, we have moments when we're hungry or sleepy or worried - but we always consult each other about everything. I treasure your opinion; you respect mine. We're best friends in a way that not many people understand.

I would say that someday we'll spend our evenings on a rocking chair together, but it probably won't happen like that. You never have liked to sit still - literally or metaphorically. You are restless in the best possibly way, always cognizant that time is fragile.

We have promised each other that we won't spend our final days watching TV or playing golf. On the contrary, we'll probably be just as crazy as we are today. Many, many years from now, when you are 92 and I am 90, we'll probably be out rowing a boat or writing books or volunteering among little children or dancing in the moonlight. People will say that we can't - and we'll do it anyway. Canes and wrinkles and all.

Today, you are 32. I love you more today than I ever did. I will love you even more tomorrow.

The best is yet to be. I'm sure of it.

When We Grow Old 1
©2020 Stephanie Sheaffer - All Rights Reserved
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