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| Rain clouds above the mesa, toward Abiquiu. |
Today is our anniversary. It is raining here in the high desert. Cloud cover blankets the mesa in a soft dove gray that is flirting with lavender. We married in this weather twelve years ago, sprinting through Cape Cod wind and mist to reach the antique door of our local Justice of the Peace without getting wet, the four of us stepping over the threshold to become a family.
Me and my three men- my love and my two sons.
I look at the photographs taken by the Justice's husband, our single witness. We are so young, all of us. Arms linking. There is palpable tenderness.
The boys are now men. They stand taller than my five-foot-eight. My husband and I, well. We are wiser. And weathered. And we remain expectant. This has been a year of enormous change.
We have sold most of our belongings (except books and paintings) and moved west. From the eastern shore to the high desert. From what was predictable and safe to what is unknown. What is possible. What might be.
After thirteen years together we are still exploring, still traveling, still on our way to somewhere. We are painting less and writing more. We are listening to each other with deeper affection, having shed many old expectations. We have come through a lot this year, on many levels. And so have our sons. Their own lives have not stood still. They too have faced changes and embraced risk.
I look out the window of my studio and exhale. I say a silent prayer for twelve more years. And twelve more years.
And twelve more years.
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