This is not the kind of love
I dreamed of as a girl,
This ordinary, everyday,
Constant sort of love.
There are no daily diamonds or champagne,
No twenty-four red rose bouquets.
This love runs through little seams,
Folding clothes and sweeping floors.
Passion in a thousand tender acts.
- author unknown
This poem hangs (or used to hang) on the wall of a hotel hallway in Killarney, Ireland. It stopped us in our tracks almost a decade ago. To this day we still haven't discovered who wrote those words but they were so perfectly "us" that I've carried them with me ever since. This year has been harder than most yet it feels as though we have more to celebrate. The trials seem to make the triumphs all the sweeter, don't you think?
Seven years and counting, my love. They said we were too young. My cup runneth over.