Silver
Twenty-five
years.
Twenty-five
winters, with ice and snow, winds and storms. Twenty-five seasons of warm
fireplaces and cold noses, snowball fights and snuggles by the window as we
watch the swirling snow outside.
Twenty-five
springs, with new grass and new leaves, green growing things all around.
Twenty-five seasons of walking in clean spring air, glad to be outside after
the long winter. Walking in the woods surrounded by newness and growth, and
timid animals emerging from a long sleep.
Twenty-five
summers, with hot days and crackling grasses, sunburns and sweat. Twenty-five
seasons of just being out there, on the road, going for days without rain or a
roof. Living off the land while spring seedlings grow and ripen.
Twenty-five
autumns with crimson and gold trees, cooling breezes and warning frost. Twenty-five
seasons of harvest and produce, the pleasure of digging deep in the ground to
get food which was planted by the same two hands.
Twenty-five
years of children and laughter, battles and tears. We have been together for
twenty-five years today. I can sit on my chair on the porch and rock, watch
children playing in the meadows, smile at the gentle breeze bringing hints of
pine and lavender. I sit, and think, and remember, and love, and am loved. I
have loved her for twenty-five years, and she has loved me as well. We don't
even need to talk now; we can have an entire conversation with facial
expressions. I know her so well, and she knows me, that I can put out my hand
without looking – like that – and she will know and take my hand without
looking – like that. And the moment I look up – like that – she will look up
and smile. After twenty-five years, I still love that smile. And I can look
back on the things we've done, and the places we've been, and the people we've
met, and be happy. I can even think about the bad times without fear, without
nightmares, because we no longer have them. And at the end of each bad time,
there was a good time, when the bad part was over and we had gotten through.
Twenty-five years of getting through. And I love her now as much as I did then.
We've
lived a life, with her family, and my family, and the Amazons, and we are
welcomed with open arms wherever we go. We have a house in each place, but our
home is each other, and we've made friends, and we've lost friends. The day we
got the news that Hercules had been killed was one of the worst; she wordlessly
wept for hours and drank herself into unconsciousness. She still feels guilt,
on the darkest nights and longest days. And seeing her, and knowing what I
know, I stay with her and support her until the dark is gone. She is my
lifeline as I am hers, and have been for twenty-five years. I love her, and we
will be together forever, in this life and the next.
Here's
to twenty-five more.
