Octennially Speaking

...it seemed the room was always hot. In the winter, the boiler heating forced the windows open in order to try and monitor and adjust the temperature inside the apartment. In the summer, with no air conditioning, the ceiling fans ran 24/7, just to generate a little bit of a breeze.

Despite the heat and the constant whirring buzz of the ceiling fans spinning above them, two people lay beside one another in that small two-bedroom apartment. At night, the sounds of trains running on the track just behind the apartment complex were punctuated by the intermittent squeals and yelps of sirens as ambulances passed in and out of the medical plaza across the street. In the mornings, the church bells at St. Anthony's would ring out, welcoming the new day. The scene was less than idyllic, but it was soothing and comforting in its repetitiveness: the room would always be hot, the trains would always run, the bells would always ring.

In spite of these detractions, the couple still lay there, together. Since it was hot, the windows were open. Since the windows were open, the sound of the trains' wheels passing over the track--a rhythmic click and clack--was amplified. Behind it all, the sounds of the ceiling fan spinning in an eternally futile quest to move the air, to cool it, to bring some relief to the constant heat. It was a cacophony. It was a symphony.

It was a beginning.

Where the ending will be--how the ending will be--has yet to be determined, but the story has been eight years in the making. Later that same year, the couple lying in that bed married. Two children and a move across five states later, and the story is still being written. There have been fights, there have been threats to walk out, there have been goofs and mistakes and leaking toilets and a dozen mice--all slain with a mighty spear and magic helmet. There have been hospital stays and surgeries--both expected and emergency--and countless flus, colds and allergies. There have been stresses and strains and misinterpretations and gaffes. There have been good times and bad. And mothers. Through it all--sickness, health, richer and poorer, the highest of the highs, the lowest of the lows--they have loved each other, and they will continue to, till death do them part.

Just like they planned it.

Happy Anniversary, dear. I love you.

* the normal Monday frivolity has been pushed back a day so that I can butter up the Mrs. for a toss in the hay can shamelessly wish my wife a happy anniversary.