Half her age ago

 My wife was 20 when I met her.
 Now, she's 40.
 Half her life ago I became her boyfriend. I remember... 20 years ago this month, the fading of summer blending into the freshness of a new school year (for her, the junior year of college). I was an old, established guy of 25 pursuing a career in journalism with a youth pastor gig on the side!
 I remember we'd only met once, in June. But I felt like I knew her real well. After all, I called her every night to be sure she remembered who I was. Calls usually took at least two or three hours to make sure she was doing well.
 I'm sure "Ma Bell" didn't mind, in those pre cell phone days of long distance rates. I even got her her own private telephone line, so she could avoid the scrutiny of Christian college co-eds clamoring over her calls taken on the public phone in the dormitory hallway.
 She boarded later with a college professor's family, literally retreating to the solice of a closet to ensure privacy during our intimate talks.
 Half her age ago, my wife-to-be considered me her hero. My words mattered.
 What matters most now to me is how to be her hero again WITHOUT words, but with actions.

The Kiss

I kissed my wife the other night. She was close enough for me to smell the hint of her perfume and the shampoo shine in her hair. I can't remember the exact circumstance that led up to it, but we were in a position of togetherness, and our faces met in agreement.

It wasn't a Hollywood, "exploitive" smooch. Just a warm greeting of the lips and a suggestion of how she tastes. A warm shiver (can one shiver warmly?) tickled through my being. I knew this was the start of the remaking of the best love story I've ever lived.

I could almost hear a distant melody in the background; birds were chirping, spring springing and flowers blooming. Perhaps this was a euphoric Hollywood induced romantic moment, with the hope of an enchanted forever attached. Whatever it was, I was there and there was no stopping it.



Until I woke up.