11 years ago today, Sarah and myself dressed up (not something I do often, preferring to feel rather than look good), grabbed my sister (known that day as �The Witness�) and headed to the San Jose court house where, between criminal hearings, a judge pronounced us man and wife. We had joined ourselves through a ritual of blood two years before and this trip to the halls of justice was made simply to ratify our union in the eyes of the law. Except for the law and my sister, nobody knew that we had tied the knot for many months. Why? That, perhaps, is another story. . .
This anniversary will, of course, be marked by the two of us. The real anniversary, however, is not until September 30 � the day of our first actual date, the first time we held our hands one in the other, the night on which our lips first touched (they have seldom been apart since). Can it really be 13 years gone? Almost. . .
But today is 11 and I find myself wondering if my old friend, Dan, recalls the bet we made some time before I met Sarah. I was a pessimistic, angst ridden and occasionally self-destructive young man who never imagined a world capable of producing the woman of my dreams. In fact, I wagered against it. Dan, old man, if you are reading this (and even if you�re not), I owe you $1.00 and I am glad to pay up.
Now a fragment from a dog eared notebook of mine from 11-13 years ago in which I mused upon the hopelessness of turning my meager talents to the task of describing in verse the woman I married:
I wonder if it is artistic excess or mere stupidity? Certainly my poetic license has done expired, null and void at my first attempt to describe, in dull and clumsy words, the essence of a woman whose beauty and life leave me breathless and speechless with tears in my eyes.
Sarah, beloved, will you marry me again?