Fifteen

Dear Greg,

Look at that crooked grin and those perfect chompers. Or, as our mutual friend Kim said, "Muscles can atrophy. Enamel lasts forever." Your maxillary anterior helped seal the deal fifteen years ago.

It seems like another life when we were taking wedding pictures in front of the Saint Louis Temple. We were younger then. You were my broncin' buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck. I was the first girl you ever kissed. (Still irked I believed that lie.) We were just a couple of clueless saplings. Remember how everything you owned fit in one cardboard box?

It's been enough years that when I think of US I see a montage of happiness. Waterfalls in Dominica, sunburned feet on a sailboat, hiding from the plague of moths under a twin sheet in Vermont, green Civic blasting Mariah Carey, sarsaparilla frostbite hands, McFlurries with spare change, building fences, you screaming I SEE HER HEAD! I SEE HER HEAD! WASS, SHE HAS SO MUCH HAIR!, always finding you in the vacuum aisle, me talking you to sleep, Levi's Silvertab Baggy, Nikes, hair gel, eating out all those last days of the month. On and on.

You've worn out a solid 100 white shirts in your service to others. I'm thankful you're gone so much doing The Work.

Your voice is still as soft and your forearms are still as awesome as they were in 1997. You're still pigeon-toed like Elway. You're still the balanced one, the solid nucleus to my flighty electron.

You're funnier now. Some recent quotes:

"Tami" is short for "Tamantha"

Why doesn't anyone give Amish Enemy Bread starts?

Do you know how hard it is to cream a tartar?

You don't need much. As long as we have eggs, sausage, Tropicana, clean socks, the newspaper, Eclipse gum (nasty), a charged iPad and Denver Broncos via DISH you're happy.

I love your day off, when we do the yard work in the morning and then make paninis for lunch on our cool wooden plates.

Just like automatic-repeat queen Jewel said, "You were meant for me. And I was meant for you." Who else hates the gooey inside of cinnamon rolls and would rather trade you for your crusty, frosting-free outer rim? No one else but me, that's who.

Let's just keep growing old, watching silver turn to gold. We'll learn to communicate later. And you're still my king.

Love, Your Wasa

*photo by Nickell Blair