In Stillness

Our wedding anniversary was Thursday. "How many?" said my sister-in-law in disbelief when I answered the annual question.

Fifty-four years. He still makes me smile. I make him laugh. We irritate each other on nearly a daily basis. We have disappointed each other, but not nearly as often as we've made each other happy.

He can see the negative side of anything; I've never met a half-full glass I didn't like. He's music. I'm words. He loves TV. I don't. I love cats. He doesn't. He considers the speed limit a rule. I think it's a suggestion--five miles per hour either way will work fine.

He's the most law-abiding one, but we have laughed for years now about the time he took it upon himself to turn left on red at a corner in Logansport. While I have undoubtedly committed more and worse traffic crimes, I haven't yet done that. According to the rules of marriage passed down by generations of women before me, I never have to let that go.

He's a hero after invasive surgery to replace or repair his joints. He ignores blisters and cuts and all other sorts of physical trauma, but is laid low for weeks on end by a cold. I, on the other hand, would require a sick leave for a hangnail, groan at length when I hit my funny bone, and turn pale when I am approached with a needle. I also expect illness to come in, do its thing, and leave the same day.

We didn't celebrate our anniversary on its day because I'm still recovering, although I'm starting to feel as if I'm milking it. I'm sure I couldn't vacuum, but I'm almost positive I could drive. He won't let me, though, and takes me where I need to go. We talk in the car, laugh, remember some things and forget others. He goes into the grocery store with me to carry out the gallon of milk and is surprised when the two things I needed became six. He doesn't want to use my Aldi reusable shopping bag in Save A Lot. He wants to buy a plastic bag, but I'm trying to use fewer of them. A lot fewer. How can he not know? We don't buy the bag, but we look funny at each other. Surprised again.

Sometimes as we drive, our hands come together between us. We smile at each other and don't say anything. We don't have to.

We are so different. Even now, after living with each other's habits for more than half a century, we fall back on saying, "That's how I grew up." Really? We've been together far longer than we were apart. Why haven't we adapted? Maybe these haven't been our formative years, but they feel that way to me. Life before him was okay, but life as I know it and cherish it has happened in the years since we met. It is the life with our kids, kids-in-law, and grandkids. Our life together is our wealth. And yet ... Don't wipe the counter with dish towels. Because that's how I grew up.

He uses white towels. I use colored ones. He rinses dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. I barely scrape them. There's nothing new in this. We were opposites when we met and we still are. I've read a gazillion articles about opposites attracting. I've written a few.

In the scheme of things ... in our scheme of things ... they don't matter. They don't matter at all. He still carries the milk when I have a weight restriction. I still buy white towels. We have both said I love you every day for 54 years and counting. Is it automatic to say it? I don't know. We still mean it--that's what matters. Even when we're mad, when the way we look at each other shouts the silent words "who ARE you?"

We'll celebrate soon. We'll go out to dinner and listen to music and drive home with our hands meeting in the middle now and then. We will remember and remind each other that every day is a celebration. These are the quiet days, as much appreciated as the ones that have already passed. In stillness, love still flourishes.

Happy anniversary, Duane. Love you more.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.