If Thoreau is right, then Ann and I sorta slept through yesterday. We both almost missed our anniversary. Again.She called at noon yesterday, 37 years later, having just remembered why June 11 should mean something to us. She said she’d bring pizza (when was the last time we had pizza since the kids left home?) and I should put the bottle of champagne somebody left here two or three New Year’s Eves ago in the fridge.
Home from work, she lofted the flat pizza box high overhead as she walked up the gravel drive with the dog dancing circles around her on his hind legs.
We put two slices each in a tupperware container, grabbed two glasses (made by Colleen’s son, our favorites) and the chilled bottle of bubbly and walked down the “New Road” to the two white-webbed chairs you saw from a winter picture during an ice storm. They’ve been waiting for us.
We pulled the chairs into the clearing. We watched the sun go down, listened to the night noises, shook our heads how long, how very long it’s been. And started number 38.