Fifteen

It’s after midnight. That means it’s March 9th.

That means it’s been fifteen years of the sort of love and support–through not only the good times, but some really rough bad ones–that nobody has the right to expect. I wouldn’t be what I am, or who I am, without it. I don’t think I’d be a writer. I know I wouldn’t be me.

I don’t feel old enough to have been married for fifteen years. More importantly, I don’t feel young enough to have nearly enough time ahead–but then, I don’t think any amount of time would be "enough."

Happy anniversary, George. I love you.