Seven years ago, I was a bright-eyed 24 year old fresh from grad school who fell in love, running to city hall in sandals and jeans, eschewing the traditional wedding.
I was against all that Barbie doll crap, it was so rock and roll of us, to sneak off.
Then, I changed my mind and we had the big fat Italian wedding.
My dad at my side, still healthy in his pot-bellied state, walked me down an aisle of dead grass, outside a historic mansion, in downtown Oak Park instead.
It was a steamy July day, me beneath a layer of satin, you beat red, whispered to me, “I love you so much, I married you twice”.
And every time you’ve said that…it doesn’t get old. Even seven year later.
In seven years,
we’ve changed this handyman-special into a home
said goodbye to my father,
to our grandmothers,
to old careers,
lived high on the hog
and paycheck to paycheck.
We’ve welcome two sons
and a fur child.
Drinks at a bar has turned into a family.
The days bleed into months
and youth turns into middle age,
and dare I say
I’d marry you a third time, just for kicks.