The yard is light at 6:00 AM, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.
It’s paler cousin, the moon, is casting a somber glow.
We know this moon. It was full and sank slowly too, on the morning we married
—a quarter century ago today.
As you sleep, I follow it down; first below the eucalyptus and the tall pines
and then below the clay-tiled rooftops.
It takes so little time for a whole planet to move, I think.
So little time to drop from the sky and make room for change,
to humbly make space for the sun,
which rises now.
I can’t help remembering the two of us
as we stood together beneath our wedding canopy,
so young, so charged with mission, so fueled by purpose.
How we too, moved through the sky, waxing, and waning,
giving to one another and receiving so much in return.
How we too, humbly made way for our children, our life’s work
and our sacred dreams made manifest.
And now before you wake —it’s almost 6:15 after all —
I think about the impossible task of explaining just how I feel about you.
How could I put into mere syllables the enormity
of what it is that we’ve made together?
I might try and say:
‘I see, in your beautiful face and your dark, brave eyes, the very proof of God’s existence,
a whispered confirmation that our choices have been blessed.’
Many times blessed.
