Twenty Four Years

Twenty four years together. Twenty four years of working out the details.

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I find bugs, he kills them for me.

He can't find anything, I find it for him.

I love football, he gets me tickets to see my favorite team.

He can't spell to save his life, I'm his spell-check.

I still run outside when he pulls into the driveway. He comes out of the truck with arms open for a crush-me-close, squeeze-me-tight bear hug.

He thinks I'm beautiful. I think he's blind.

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The Man still calls me his "bride".

Bride? Not anymore. I'm a little wrinkled now. And there's some gray. Well, a lot of gray, really. Gravity has exacted its price. I say, "Huh?" quite often because people mumble more than they used to. My body's temperature rises and falls like the waves in an ocean squall; one minute, I'm freezing and the next, I'm glistening, as my Southern girlfriends say. 

{Glistening = sweating}

Bride? Not hardly. I'm feeling a bit dented, definitely worn, with some scars picked up along the way. The rose colored glasses were tossed away many years ago. 

Amazingly, he still sees me as the bride he remembers. And that's what love is. Finding that someone who will love you through the flaws.

Happy anniversary, Man. Love you to the moon and back.