seventeen

Seventeen years ago this month Andy and I crossed paths in the Northwoods of Minnesota, he was just returned from two years in Africa, I was on my way to Valdez, Alaska.  I was 26, he was 24.  We weren't looking for love, we were still immersed in our solo adventures.  Dedicated to discovering our independence.  Maybe even fiercely protective of it.

Because of that, it wasn't love at first sight, but there was a spark, something neither of us could ignore.  As I traveled to Alaska, back to Minnesota, back to Alaska, to Mexico, I couldn't get this gentle man out of my mind (or heart).  He put his travelling shoes away for awhile to dedicate himself to teaching, but he liked me enough to come visit me in some of these far flung places.  We wrote letters, looked forward to the once/month short-but-sweet satellite phone calls, and continued to tend this relationship while forging our own way. And finally after a couple of years of that, we settled down together for a season to see, just see.

Soon it was clear that as we dreamed our future dreams, of travel, of gardens, of adventure, they included one another. We'd become best friends, our love had grown strong, our solo paths had merged, we would stay by one another's side from here on out.

Tonight we celebrated 17 sweet years together with some good food, quiet conversation, some hardy laughs.  As I looked across the table at this constant friend I celebrated every moment we've ever had. Every hard one, every beautiful one.  Every one.