August 30th, 1969.
A boy and a girl at the beginning of their story.
So much joy. Love slips out as laughter and a smile.
They didn’t have a clue what was coming. All they knew. In that moment. Was that he loved her and she loved him. And that’s all a love story needs for a beginning.
A honeymoon complete with a roach infestation. Holding hands and moving across the Pond. Miles away from everything she knew. Except she knew him. She held his hand and followed. Traveling across continents. England, Nigeria, Greece, Egypt, Zambia. Building home from house after house.
Miscarriages. Sadness. Then came me. Followed by my brother.
Dirty diapers. Grumpy, fighting children. Trans-Atlantic flights. Two kids through school. Family vacations. Groceries. Laundry. Cooking. Cleaning. Holidays. Anniversaries. Birthdays. Grandchildren. Let downs. Surprises.
Piece by Piece. Every day. Stories pile higher than the dirty socks.
Dreams that were dreamed were whispered and changed again and again.
Tears were shed. Fights were had. Hugs were given. Laughs were had. Holding it all. At the center. A boy and a girl. With greying hair and shifting bodies. But inside, the same. He loved her and she loved him.
A history. Theirs and a piece of mine.
I wonder if they’d know then how one chapter would write the next, with hard edges and soft kisses, if they’d still run and laugh and give their hearts so freely.
It’s a leap. A wedding day. Courage in pretty clothes. Simply because that face or those eyes make your heart tap dance and your insides melt.
A love story never starts with the ending in mind.
That boy, he’s gone now – leaving us a day before my parent’s 42nd anniversary. A character missing in this daily life of ours. But I bet if I asked and he could answer; he would do it all again. And so would she.