When I think of meeting my husband, I think of the details: hot peppers, a pink t-shirt, Linkin Park, cigars, Frangelico. Each of these tiny things played its part in bringing us together.

We met over eight years ago, in the wake of tragedy, introduced by a mutual friend. We fell for each other on the second Saturday in November. Our love began right then, I like to think. Although it wasn’t until three months had passed that I felt myself looking at him as more than just someone fun to kiss.

We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the better part of this decade. I know how he likes his under shirts folded (although I still can’t quite get it “right”; don’t worry, he’s not a tyrant about it). I know that he’ll fall asleep at about 8:30 every night, if I let him. That it takes about 30 minutes of continuous poking and prodding to fully wake him up. I know that he makes friends easily and with almost anyone – but that, inside, he’s just as shy as I am. I know that he likes his pickles sliced in rounds rather than spears. I know that he’d rather stay in and watch a movie than go out to the bars. I know that he’s smarter than 99% of the people I know, yet he sometimes feels a little insecure. I know that he can’t stand it when my shoes prevent me from walking long distances or long durations of time. That he takes skim milk with his cereal and half-and-half in his coffee. I know that he hates talking on the phone – unless he’s talking to me. I know that he’s listening to the rhythms and melodies and harmonies of a song – but not really to the words.

I can’t believe we have been married for a year.

What surprises me is how different marriage felt/feels when compared to our life together before marriage. Not much has changed, really. I mean, we lived together for five years before we tied the knot. But I feel different. About money (I feel the need to ask him if routine purchases are okay – not because he cares, but because it’s now OUR money instead of MINE). About how much I know about him (so little, really… I marvel sometimes at how little I understand what’s going on inside his brain). About complaining. About arguments (which are simultaneously less important, because I feel secure that he’s not going to dump my bitchy ass… and yet more critical, because ohmygod are we really going to spend the next 50 years arguing over how to load the fricking dishwasher?).

Mostly, I feel different about time.

When we were living together, I wanted to fast forward to the time when we’d be engaged. When we were engaged, I couldn’t wait to be married. I wished for the earth to spin faster, for us to be at that next step immediately, hurry hurry now.

Now that we’re married, a whole year in, I try to will the sun to slow its trek across the sky. I wish the minutes would stretch out beyond sixty seconds. That the days wouldn’t pass at such lightning speed.

I want to hold onto these moments – especially those when we’re laughing together, or holding each other as we drift off to sleep, but even those when he’s sleeping next to me on the couch, even those when we’re arguing – hold them tightly, until I’m ready to let them go. But even as I reach for them, they’re gone.

In an instant, we’ll be seventy years old – I can see it so clearly. I just hope – as our fiftieth anniversary approaches – that we still hold each other as we drift off to sleep, that we still make each other laugh, that he still makes my heart swell with a love so sharp it frightens me.

I write poems. It’s something I’ve done my whole life. Now, I’m not claiming I’m good at it or anything. But it’s something I just do, because some part of my brain just needs to do it.

This is why I “minored” in poetry in college (although my university didn’t really have minors). It’s why I got a Master’s in Fine Arts in poetry.

It’s why, when trying to come up with the perfect gift for my first Valentine’s Day with my now-husband (then boyfriend), my mom suggested getting him a book of love poems. So I picked out a pocket-sized hard-bound copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets and dedicated them to my then-boyfriend with the words, “May poetry always be in your life.”

(Of course, by “poetry” I actually meant me.)

(CORNY. I know.)

So it was natural that our wedding would include some poetry. Our Save the Date cards had some poem-y language on them. We wrote our vows together (we said the same words – but we wrote them) which was poetry of sorts. We had a dear friend read a poem (and a poem-ish excerpt from The History of Love) during the ceremony.

And then we had poems written up and placed on every table at the reception.

It was lovely, to be surrounded not only by our most adored loved ones, but also by words – some of them hundreds of years old – written out of this deep feeling we had for one another.

The poem table decorations were designed by Kristy Rice at Momental Designs.  She is AWESOME by the way. She did our invitations and programs, and they were incredible. She hand paints everything she produces, giving it this lovely artistry that is so wonderful. And she will work with you to create custom designs. For instance, she custom-made the mountain backdrop and snowflakes that appeared on the things she produced for us. I highly, highly, highly recommend Kristy. She is amazing. I never met her in person – we lived in different states. But she was easy to work with and creative and quick and wonderful. (And SO affordable it is shocking.)

So of course you want to see some of her handiwork, right?

Here is a close up of one of the poems.

And a few of them, laid out on the table.

And then a couple leaning against frames.

My husband and I planned every element of our wedding with great care. Every detail – from the choice of flowers to the choice of poems to the songs the band played – was hand picked with love. The wedding wasn’t perfect (I think the vision of “the perfect day” is a horrible myth perpetuated by Hollywood and the wedding industry). But it was wonderful. It was an incredible “bon voyage” into this committed, special relationship my husband and I share.

Tomorrow is our anniversary. I’ll leave you with another poem:

Once in the 40s

by William Stafford

We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold - but
brave - we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.