our song

Two of my best friends from college just celebrated a milestone wedding anniversary and in recognition shared a link to their song on Facebook. The bride wrote, “Our song. The perfect way to end our 20th anniversary. Please enjoy the music while I slow dance with the love of my life…” Beautiful. 

B and I have a song, too, although I can never remember the name of that song. Today over lunch, I had to ask him again, “What is our song?”

“When I Think of You by Sheriff.”

           

“Oh. Really?”

           

“You remember the first time I sang it to you?”

           

“Yeah,” I blushed. “Well, I remember you singing to me. I didn’t remember the song. The song wasn’t important.”

He first sang our song to me 18 years ago during a snowy Thanksgiving weekend in Colorado. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly three months. B was visiting from Seattle and meeting my parents for the first time. That was the also first time I had heard him sing—I mean really sing. And when he sang, my world stood still and I had to remind myself to breathe. That was when I knew that he was the one I was going to marry.

Over the next few months, we talked as often as we could, which seemed almost every day. I spent a long weekend in Seattle for Valentine’s Day, and a month later he came back to Colorado for my birthday.

“I don’t want to keep doing this long-distance thing,” he announced shortly after we left the airport on Tuesday night.

“I don’t like it either, but I’m close to my family and I like my job here. There’s upward mobility, and it’s a stepping stone to a larger publication,” I said. “I left Seattle because I couldn’t find a job that I really liked.” I also left Seattle because B and I were committed to nothing more than a summer romance. A May through August thing—the funnest relationship I had ever been in—even so, we both agreed at the beginning that it was just for the summer. I moved to Colorado over Labor Day weekend. By the end of September, we realized that there was a lot more there.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll look for a job here.”

He spent the next few days on the phone and in interviews, and he even received a couple job offers. One of the companies paid exactly half of his Seattle salary with even less benefits, and that was the one with the most promise. So, Friday night found us sitting in my car in my driveway having a rather serious conversation, which was quite unusual for us.

“I still don’t want to keep doing the long-distance thing. I think one of us should move, and I think it should be you,” he stated. “I looked for a job here, and it’s not worth it. Your salary won’t be able to make up the difference I would lose.”

“I’m not sure if I will be able to get a good job there, and I don’t want to move back to Seattle and then break up,” I said.

He sat back in his seat and stared out the front window. “I don’t want to be pressured, and I’m not sure that I am ready to make that sort of commitment.”

“No pressure. You just let me know when you are ready.” I wasn’t going to pressure him at all. I would wait. Besides, I was so sure that we were going to get married that I already purchased my wedding gown. It was hanging in my closet. I just didn’t tell him any of that, yet.

That rest of the weekend was remarkable, although ironically, I can’t tell you what we did. I think it was more about of how I felt when I was with him. I know he felt it, too, because on Sunday night, just hours before he returned to Seattle, he said to me, “I’m ready.”

Not quite seven months later on October 15, 1994, we were married. That night, B drove me to a hilltop overlooking Seattle. He put “When I’m With You” on the car stereo. He held me close, singing softly in my ear as we danced behind the car.

Happy Anniversary, B. I still get chills when I’m with you.

            

burned.

I burned dinner tonight. Not all of it. Part of it.

I remembered the dish in the oven only moments before pandemonium ensued. The smoke detector beeped deafeningly. It’s human voice broadcasted with urgency, “Fire, Fire, Fire.” The dog barked incessantly, increasingly louder and in sync with the smoke detector. The girl covered her ears, screamed and ran from the kitchen. B reacted calmly. He handed me the baby after I removed the offending pan from the oven and set it safely to rest away from any fire. He stood under the battle claxon attempting to silence it.

Once the moment was over and there was once again peace in the house, we gathered along the countertop and stabbed at the half burned chicken with a fork.

“I’m not eating that,” Ash declared.

“Why not?” asked B. “What’s wrong with it?”

Ash stared at her father with shock. “Mommy’s not eating any.” True. I wasn’t going to eat any of the chicken anyway, and now there was really no way I was going to have any.

“I’ll eat it.” He took a bite of the chicken, “Crunchy.”

He took another bite and said, “I don’t think it’s supposed to be that black, and it’s a little drier than I usually like it.”

Ash looked at the chicken again, to me and said, “Are you kidding me?”

B took another bite, making a yummy sound.

I don’t know if it was because she was really hungry or if B just made the chicken look so appetizing that Ash eventually reached for a piece of her own. Two.

Before she could take a bite, B intercepted, “Let me help you.” He then picked up a sharp knife and began to butcher the chicken. “The black runs a deep into this piece,” he said examining it. “But I think I can fix it for you.”

By dinner’s end, all but two pieces of the chicken—did I mention they were chicken nuggets?—had been eaten. Those last two pieces had been decidedly declared, in no uncertain terms, to be sawdust, “and none should be subjected to them.”

The funny thing is, it’s not the first time I’ve set off the smoke detector, and it will not be the last. If you want a really good story, just ask B about Christmas morning 1995.