I still have it, sitting in one of the two black boxes I keep in my closet. I tell myself I'm not sentimental, and I suppose that's partly true. You can't be too sentimental about things if you ever want to purge your house of clutter, which I do regularly. (Organization helps me think better.)
But there it sits in a mangled mess of treasures: Old ticket stubs, love letters, poems, small gifts, a song. The insides of those boxes are allowed to be disorganized.
Huey Lewis and the News: Greatest Hits. I can't remember why Brock bought it for me. It wasn't like I was a die-hard fan or anything. All I remember is him and I belting out "DO YOUUUU BELIEVE IN LOOOOVE??? DO YOU BELIEVE IT'S TRUUUUE???" across Highway 6 in my 1993 Audi with the window that I had to duct tape shut.
He was meeting my family for the first time. I remember sitting down on the bathroom floor with my mom late one night, talking about this Brock fellow. He was quite the charmer, I admitted, but I wasn't about to get ahead of myself. My mom was relieved.
I didn't know what I was doing when I got married. (I still don't.) But I knew that I believed in love. And today--five years later--I'd like to thank my parents for that.
They were flabbergasted when I got engaged. My mother was literally crying on the phone when Brock called to ask for permission ("Don't you think she's a little young??"). Well, guess what? They only have themselves to blame. And I hope they do. I hope they take responsibility for the daughter who knew how to spot a good man because she'd been raised by one. For the daughter who was okay with not having all the answers because she knew her mother gave the best advice. For the daughter who believed in love because she grew up in a home that was filled with it. I'm celebrating my fifth year of marriage today because of two people who are in their twenty-sixth. They are the reason why two disorganized black boxes sit in my closet.
It's fitting, really. Organization implies finiteness--beginning, middle, end. But my love story doesn't really have a beginning that I can pinpoint, because it didn't really start with Brock. It started with my parents (even though I have no boxes to show for it). And their story started with their parents. And on and on and on and on all the way back to distant ancestors whose names are lost. But they--whoever they were--had love stories, too. And maybe they kept letters and poems and songs in boxes.
Someday in the future when our names are the lost ones, a young woman will lie in a quiet bed. She'll be thinking back on her nameless great-grandsomethings, wondering what their love story was. I doubt my two boxes will be around by then. (She won't need them--believers never do.) She'll yawn, kiss her husband goodnight, and whatever wispy thought she had of us will become a dream.
I'm sure it will be a lovely dream.
But there it sits in a mangled mess of treasures: Old ticket stubs, love letters, poems, small gifts, a song. The insides of those boxes are allowed to be disorganized.
Huey Lewis and the News: Greatest Hits. I can't remember why Brock bought it for me. It wasn't like I was a die-hard fan or anything. All I remember is him and I belting out "DO YOUUUU BELIEVE IN LOOOOVE??? DO YOU BELIEVE IT'S TRUUUUE???" across Highway 6 in my 1993 Audi with the window that I had to duct tape shut.
He was meeting my family for the first time. I remember sitting down on the bathroom floor with my mom late one night, talking about this Brock fellow. He was quite the charmer, I admitted, but I wasn't about to get ahead of myself. My mom was relieved.
I didn't know what I was doing when I got married. (I still don't.) But I knew that I believed in love. And today--five years later--I'd like to thank my parents for that.
They were flabbergasted when I got engaged. My mother was literally crying on the phone when Brock called to ask for permission ("Don't you think she's a little young??"). Well, guess what? They only have themselves to blame. And I hope they do. I hope they take responsibility for the daughter who knew how to spot a good man because she'd been raised by one. For the daughter who was okay with not having all the answers because she knew her mother gave the best advice. For the daughter who believed in love because she grew up in a home that was filled with it. I'm celebrating my fifth year of marriage today because of two people who are in their twenty-sixth. They are the reason why two disorganized black boxes sit in my closet.
It's fitting, really. Organization implies finiteness--beginning, middle, end. But my love story doesn't really have a beginning that I can pinpoint, because it didn't really start with Brock. It started with my parents (even though I have no boxes to show for it). And their story started with their parents. And on and on and on and on all the way back to distant ancestors whose names are lost. But they--whoever they were--had love stories, too. And maybe they kept letters and poems and songs in boxes.
Someday in the future when our names are the lost ones, a young woman will lie in a quiet bed. She'll be thinking back on her nameless great-grandsomethings, wondering what their love story was. I doubt my two boxes will be around by then. (She won't need them--believers never do.) She'll yawn, kiss her husband goodnight, and whatever wispy thought she had of us will become a dream.
I'm sure it will be a lovely dream.
 |
| At Stuart Falls in one of the first pictures we ever took together. Fall 2006. |
juj has that quicksliver sweatshirt! apparently he and brock use to share clothes...precious : ) happy anniversary!
ReplyDeleteAwesome place, awesome picture, and amazing post. You want to be a writer? Go for it girl - I'm sure you could get money for this post if you published it.
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful, Kristi :) You two are such a great example
ReplyDeleteFanatastic post! Makes me change my embargo on commenting
ReplyDelete