Recently a friend of mine from the old country, Nebraska,
became my friend of Facebook. I am not sure if this makes him an old friend, a
new friend, or some sort of hybrid, a rediscovered friend. Internet networking
sites have altered the meaning of things. I could write a book about the way
that bothers me, but I will spare you, dear reader.
Anyway, we are friends, again. A short time ago he posted a
photo of his wedding day. A day that happened thirty five years ago and he was
preparing to celebrate the occasion.
I was dumbfounded. For one thing it forced me to realize
that I am getting old. I forget to remember how age is creeping up on me. Even
on days when things ache so bad it is a toss-up which leg to limp on. Secondly,
I couldn’t believe how long it had been since we had last talked, more than
thirty five years. I didn’t know he was married, I didn’t even know he was
seeing anybody. I didn’t even know he was alive.
Then it struck me, thirty five years is a long time, an
impressively long time. But, it isn’t the years. It is the minutes that make a
marriage, any relationship. Those brief instances where love is built,
reinforced, transformed from the lusty, irrepressible, hedonistic early days to
the comfort of soft sighs and gentle embraces. When holding hands is enough to
make you believe in heaven.
All of those seconds when you laughed at private jokes that
nobody else understood. And if they did they wouldn’t have been nearly so
amused. Couples, possibly in self-defense start to assimilate characteristics
from each other. Shared feelings are the bonds that last forever.
Times when you are so sick you think you might die. Lying in
bed, dozing in and out of sweaty, restless sleep. Then, an angel wakes you,
presses a cold cloth on your fevered, pasty forehead and gives you a glass of
ice-cold green Kool-aid. It may have been the only thing that kept you from
going to the light. Or when she has the flu so bad she is helpless and all she
wants to eat is macaroni and cheese. The cheap kind, so you stop every night on
the way home and buy a box, cook it up, and serve it to her on the couch. Gently
you help her back to bed. Kiss her cheek and pray that she outlives
you.
Marriages are built around those times, seconds of pain and
fear. Flashes of happiness so blinding they seem impossible. And those seconds
that take hours. Those times you are so mad you could just walk away, never
look back. Anger and loathing cloud your vision, you lash out, and she lashes
out, and you think “if I never see you again it will be too soon.” But, you
don’t give up because you know the term my
better half is not just a meaningless cliché. It is the truth. Those minutes, interminable, terrible,
regrettable, make a relationship stronger, because afterwards love heals the
wounds, and the scars serve to remind of the pain caused by emotions so strong.
So, I salute your thirty five years, we are still rookies,
only twenty eight, and I applaud your time management skills. You are both
shining examples of the possibilities. And I am grateful.
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