Five years ago we were married and about to embark on our first adventure – we boarded a flight to Italy and spent ten days exploring Rome and the Amalfi coast. Exhausted by jet lag, you fell asleep during dinner in Piazza Navona on our first night. We wandered through the city streets and ate gelato and drank red table wine. We started each morning in Amalfi on a veranda perched high above the ocean with cappuccino and fried eggs, then in the afternoons we would go into town where we sat and sipped limoncello and watched a parade in the square. We climbed down to and back up out of the nearby fjord of Furore; we walked up old stone stairs and through very old alleyways to find a restaurant with no name or address. A very angry bus driver yelled at us because we were entirely clueless about the mass transit system and had absolutely no idea where to disembark. We ate lots of tiramisu. We were mistakenly assumed to be relatives of a celebrity.
We said we would go back on our fifth anniversary, but, sadly, our hotel has since closed. Instead, we’re celebrating someplace else, about to open a special bottle of wine – the same wine that was so generously given to us for dinner on the last night of our honeymoon. Since then, we had never seen this wine in a store stateside. But a few weeks ago we were wandering through a wonderfully curated little wine shop and we instantly recognized the label. We excitedly purchased it in anticipation of our anniversary – a little nod to that first adventure.
In these five years, we’ve fought and laughed and pushed and protected and reconciled and loved and argued and talked and cared and traveled and wandered and grown and moved and explored and run and raced and rested and sat and listened and comforted and become.
Ry, I am so very proud of the life we’ve built together and I am so very grateful for you.