Ten Lines for as Many Years
For tradition and for the yellow leaves, I slipped into white
lace and you dressed in a suit, both we would never
wear again. It was just you and me standing amongst the
people who made us. My dad and I walked down a gravel
path to a dock, to you, to our families under a blue September sky.
Bud read the vows and we repeated, sending them into
the future as unwrapped hope. Since then, we've lightened
as our roots interlace around each other to spread and stabilize.
Every once in a while I find myself laughing a little longer and a little
harder, so I can keep a moment fluid before it solidifies into memory.
We got to pal around for a few days, just you and I in the closest downtown we have, talking about how much we love being in the middle of things just to come home to our quiet small town at the base of mountain ranges that range and range.
Each trip we learn how to travel a bit better. We find a place we can get coffee over which I can sketch while you take your time getting up. We find a restaurant we can go back to again and again. We loved Matt's in the Market so much we found ourselves there a few times.
We got a ride to our destination and watched the locks fill as busy boats waited.