On February 10—not 14—we celebrate Valentine’s Day because it’s the day I asked you to marry me. Not in so many words, of course, since women aren’t supposed to propose. But it just slipped out; I hadn’t planned anything. We were just sitting there together on the couch in that tiny cabin by the ocean. I had traveled all the way from Michigan, left my children and business to fend for themselves, to pursue the picturesque possibilities of blending our families.
My right hand had moved discretely to your thigh as we talked. Then out came the crucial question: “So when should I start thinking possessively about this?”
“This!” I said, gently squeezing your thigh with my fingers. Not a hint of surprise crossed the curves of your bearded face as we grasped simultaneously the meaning of my question. No doubt about it—that was a proposal and needed a response, which came with your next breath: “You can have it all—lock, stock, and barrel.”
It’s here again—our very own Valentine’s Day. We’ve built a good life together in these 16 years since I asked for your thigh in marriage. It’s a moment to recapture, recommit. A moment worth celebrating.
That’s the assignment I read to my writing group last night. And today Mauri and I took the day off work to hang out together—our kind of celebrating. It was very nice. And a couple of reminiscent pictures to cap it off.
Here’s the “tiny cabin by the ocean.” [For the record, I stayed in Captain’s Cabin; Mauri stayed in Lower Deck.]
Yep, the couch and the famous thigh that started the whole thing.
You can’t see the ocean or the Twin Rocks, but you can see that Mauri set up his keyboard and took his guitar. Singing together has always been part of who we are.
We haven’t changed much at all, have we?