The sun set, the music played, and across from me stood the woman I would marry. And then we did.
“Contrary to popular belief,” said the minister. “This is not a shotgun wedding.”
It was the middle of the ceremony and he was acknowledging the sound of gunfire that had disturbed some poem, fable, or similar reading of heartstrings and literature. The guns were around the corner, props in a cowboy stunt show that was losing its audience to our nuptials and whispers of an open bar. The crowd laughed, the moment lingered, and some butterflies flew into the blur.
Then there was a honeymoon, a handful of moves, the loss of loved ones, the birth of children, and lots of mistakes, all of which are still in various states of play.
It is all happiness, tears, and the days between. It has passed as quickly as every cliché you can think of, and some that you probably can’t. It’s surreal, really.
Eleven years of marriage is both forever and just the beginning. It’s the best kind of ride.
Happy anniversary, Tricia. I love you and have funny ways of showing it. You know how I do.
Whit Honea can be found writing about whatever he feels like at his personal site Honea Express (Honea sounds like pony) and DadCentric. If you’re really bored you can follow him on the Twitter or Pinterest (his opinions are his own and do not reflect those of Babble or most rational people). He thinks all people should have the right to many years of marriage.
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