It was an old no name guitar we found in my attic at the ranch. Perfect size for me to learn on, you told me, and I was eager to play. It came with me when I moved to Louisiana, all my possessions loaded to the top of a ranch pickup from Nebraska. Our first year of marriage you tried to teach me. We bought a wood burning kit and carved designs into the body. We create well together. Always have. It's usually spontaneous, but somehow it turns out to be what we envisioned.
I got blisters. Then forgot to practice. And practice is everything, you would remind me. Just when I'd get the itch to try my hand at playing guitar once again, I'd get pregnant. And it's awkward holding a guitar over a pregnant belly. You wouldn't know, though, would you? You may get pregnancy cravings, baby, but you ain't never had the belly. So for now I'm content to sit and watch you play. While the kids dance and the sunlight grows hazy. You strum the guitar and I smile in my soul. How is it possible to fall a little more in love with you every day?
We're getting away this weekend, going on an adventure, just you and me. Celebrating our 9th anniversary. And I can hardly wait. I never know with you what's going to happen. But it's almost always memorable.
So, here's to memories and to making them last forever.