A COLD CELEBRATION
Friday, June 7, 2019
It’s a celebration day—this June 7th.
It’s a cold day, however.
Oh, not weather cold but rather, my husband and I each have one—a cold, that is. One of those shared things. His arrived several days ago and only yesterday did it jump the barrier of resistance and land in my throat.
Presently, I am sofa settled with Small Dog resting beside my left knee, both of us tucked under the lap robe doing little to quell chills. My teeth and my right ear suffer the pain of disturbed sinuses. I stop typing occasionally to put pressure on my eye sockets, fighting for relief. Within reach, I have a roll of soft Charmin toilet paper for nose-blowing. The degree of need has long passed the use of boxed tissues. Simply put, I am miserable.
But, this is a celebration day. Sixty-one years ago, on a sweltering Arizona Saturday evening in a Baptist church undergoing remodel and therefore without air conditioning, 23-year-old David and my greatly gowned eighteen-year-old self, entered into “Holy Matrimony.”
In those sixty-one years we moved from being kids to being adults to being qualified for the term, elderly. We have loved each other, tolerated each other, admired the other, manufactured moments of mutual disdain, depended on, trusted in, railed against, fought for, fought with, laughed lots, cried plenty, shared success, shared sorrows and fears. In the second, fourth, and seventh years of these sixty-one, we produced children. Those children instantly, and continually, added comedy and crises, comfort, moments of anguish and unending joy.
The Greeks have four words for love and in these sixty-one years we have exercised them all: erotic, friendship, affection, and selfless love. So, when David wakes from his cold-induced fitful sleep; when I force myself from the sofa so small dog can be fed, David and I will share a suffering hug. We will say, for the sixty-first time, “Happy Anniversary,” and cold-laden, we will celebrate marriage.
