Today marks 30 years - THIRTY YEARS, which is something like 186 dog years for larger breeds - that D. and I have been married.
It's phenomenal, and we're smug and proud of ourselves, although D. keeps pointing to the length of the marriage of the recently widowed Queen Elizabeth II and her Prince Philip. Seventy-three years. It'll be tough to match that one, having tied the knot when we were a little bit older than the royal couple.
If it weren't for the pandemic, we might have had a little get-together and renewed our vows. But we don't want to do anything like that via zoom. So we are not celebrating in any exciting way. Perhaps take-out sushi from Fuji. No cards, no flowers, no presents. But that suits us after 262,800 hours as man and wife.
And on another note, I've been trying not to duplicate posts between blogs, but this is from The Practical Poet: a link to the latest issue of The Racket Journal, which contains "Last Days on the Cul-de-Sac," one of my longer, darker poems. I'm so grateful to Noah Sanders for giving my little suburban apocalypse piece a home.
The art on the cover and inside, as well as the other pieces of writing, make me feel extra humble to be in such talented company. I'm kind of pinching myself over hanging with the cool kids.
No comments:
Post a Comment