She was a wild child when they met, red hair flying, prairie girl dresses, passionate speech.  He was calm in his jeans and pullover sweaters, his kind brown eyes.  She was a social worker.  He worked with people who were disabled.  Their attraction was as surprising as it was compelling.  They talked earnestly.  He liked the way her hazel eyes turned green when she felt deeply about something, which was fairly often.  She admired his purposeful manner, felt something dissolve when he focused his quiet gaze on her.

Very quickly, and with full certainty, they knew they were supposed to be together

Their friends worried.

“He’s so conservative!  Are you sure you’re not looking for a father figure?”

“She’s a character, isn’t she?  You’ll have your hands full with her!”

“I never thought I had many needs,” he told his mother, “but I do, and she meets them.”

“My heart settles down when I’m with him,” she told her friends.  “I feel like I am home.”

They decided to be married on their second date.

For everyone’s peace of mind, they waited another eight months for the wedding.  It was a family event, attended by all of the people they worked with.  A regal-looking  man with autism began to sing, a high-pitched wail that faded as a staff member lead him outside.  An elderly man with Down’s Syndrome and a soft heart began to cry sentimental tears, and another man began to mock him, crying even louder.

“It was a very unusual wedding,” guests later told them, and, laughing, they agreed. On the video, they both smiled throughout the ceremony; dazzled, happy grins that transformed their faces.  Everyone laughed when she was promising,” to speak and to listen” and he whispered, “to speak and to speak.”  When the minister said he could kiss his bride, he whispered, “You are my rose,” from The Little Prince, and then kissed her so long and so hard that her feet came off the floor and the audience began to cheer.

It’s been 24 years since that giddy, tremulous day.  To tell the truth, it has not been “happily ever after.”  It has been a lot of hard work, a journey of struggles and upheaval.  The very things they loved about each other, the very things that first drew them together, have caused them much pain and difficulty.

“Show me some emotion!” she has implored, again and again. “Open up and share your feelings!”

“Don’t you think you’re over-reacting?”  he has been known to argue.  “It’s natural for things to settle down.  I’m glad for the butterflies to be over. I want us to be comfortable.”

The two golden-haired girls they were given, peach and ivory, song and swallow, piercing sweetness and heart-stabbing love, entered adolescence and shocked them with their disdain.  They survived that season and can laugh again with their daughters, now bright and luminous young women with strong minds.

Then came Empty Nest, all pain and possibility, blended with loneliness.

“Who am I?” she asks herself these days, heart and tears overflowing.  “And why is my husband so distant?”

“What does she want?” he asks himself, mind full of plans and projects, heart resentful of her intensity and need.

Still –

Sometimes he grins at her, and the laugh crinkles around his brown eyes still make her heart soften.  Sometimes they still make a little magic together.  Sometimes they feel the strength of their love, the security of their union, the sweet and distinctive peace of so many years of trust.  And they are grateful.

Maybe that’s all “happily ever after” really means.

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