An Open Letter to my Husband on Our First Anniversary

You had kind eyes. That was the first thing I noticed about you - that and your horn-rimmed glasses and smile. All of those things. The next thing I noticed is that you were nervous.

Your shyness is something that was and is still irresistible to me - the slight way your back tensed and then relaxed when I hugged you hello.

"Whoa!" I imagined you thinking, "This girl is forward and she smells a bit like pomegranate martinis."

A little while later, you were drinking a pomegranate martini just like mine, instead of trying to impress me with single-malt whiskey. I was saying to myself  - "This boy is different."

Because, at that point, I'd had my fill of the guys with the scotch and the great lines.

You ask me to dinner three days later, followed by coffee and lots of talking. I find out that you are a little bit jaded, a tad nihilistic - but in a vulnerable way that makes me realize that you're not fake. You're not into the big show. I love this about you, because what I see is what I get. I don't think you really understand how important that is to me. You open doors for me, and you always thank me for the evening. You have a Michigan accent and a careful kiss.

Four months in, I know I love you.

You meet my daughter. You hit it off immediately, but then she throws a fantastic tantrum just two weeks later. It's a test. She's been through a lot, and she isn't always an easy child. I think you're going to run. You don't - you come closer. I kind of know, at that point, where this is going - but I'm a little jaded too.  At some indeterminate point, I stop waiting for red flags and shoes to drop.

You start sleeping over, and I get to hear you in the morning. Your head makes a dent in the pillow, and we fight over the covers. Mostly, we lay very still, listening to the sounds of the street through the open windows of my bedroom. The best nights are when it is raining. Sometimes you laugh in your sleep.When you aren't there, I'm restless.

We are getting more comfortable, and we take our first trip, walking around the city that owns my heart. A year later, you will propose four blocks away from where we are standing, dropping a ring of diamonds into my hand on the Rue Royale.

You tease me about my ridiculous shoes, and my inability to tighten a lid. I make big breakfasts on Sunday mornings, and we drink too much coffee while watching B-movies. You tell me I'm spectacular. I've never heard that before.

I remember all of these things.

I am fascinated by your mind - something that you are incredibly humble about. Needlessly so. I confess one night my fear: I will die never having written something of value. You confess your fear that you'll never create something that will use all of your potential. We promise each other we won't let that happen.

Now, we sit across from each other at our kitchen table, laptops like bookends. You are programming, I am writing. There is intimacy in moments like this, even though we seldom speak during these times. Each of us does not completely understand what the other is doing. I think that's the secret of it all - the formula.

You are patient with my moods, with my habits and my tics. I love watching you when you are unaware that you are being watched. You rub your neck when you are thinking. You get excited about Physics, James Bond, and what I bring home from the grocery store. I get excited when we talk about paint chips, Irish beer, and future vacations. You prefer Tanqueray in your martini, and I prefer Bombay. We still fight over the covers, and also the thermostat.

We have our moments of frustration - me in another room, trying to sort out thoughts and stop words before they leave my lips, never to be taken back. You have your insomnia and Type A perfectionism. And your logic - something which I lack in the heat of anger. We are both oldest children.

You are a natural father - you doubt this, but in so many ways you are a much better parent than I.
I am sometimes selfish. I can confess that. You are anything but, and you don't know how grateful I am that you are here. You have made my daughter, our daughter, laugh again. You are steady ground for her feet.

Today, we celebrate our first anniversary. They say that you won't truly know who the love of your life was until your final moments. I don't really believe them. I just want you to always look at me the way you did the night I wore a blue dress, when things were new and possibility hung in the air like a question mark.

I hope to forever make you nervous.

Photo: Arvizu Photography