I had a dress and some fake flowers, and a length of burgundy ribbon that disappeared into the ether after that night. He had a dark coat and two claddagh rings. We had a pair of poems, one chosen by each of us and a pair of attendants for which we’d done the same.

On that morning – no, even into the afternoon – we didn’t have a ceremony. We had no idea what we’d be getting ourselves in to. There wasn’t even a set time for this thing we’d staged for friends but not for family, a simple showcase for something that had ripened many months before.

It wasn’t much of a wedding, really. There were no crazy bachelor or bachelorette parties, no elegant wedding showers,  not even a proper registry — only an intimate barbeque the night before, hosted by the dear family of a dearer friend (none of whom I have ever properly thanked for their kindness and generosity, a thing of which I am ashamed).

Sometimes I regret missing out on most of the excitement that is showered on a bride. No showers or lingerie or picking out cakes or invitations or matching centerpieces. And then I remember that I don’t like to be made much of, and walking into that room with all those eyes on me was the most terrifying moment of my life. And the happiest.

I always said that the wedding didn’t matter, that those who focus on the one single day are missing the point. And I still maintain that I never really wanted to get married – I wanted to be married. That, I think, has made all the difference.

Half a decade later, I am still married, still tied – as I was from the second he showed up on my doorstep the night we first met, from the day he’d driven from New York to Ohio to be with me, and five years to the day from the one in which our little sort-of-impromptu not-quite-a-real-ceremony began.

Through sickness (tummy aches and headaches, sliced fingers, strange lumps that needed ultrasounds and major surgery) and through health (weight gain, weight loss, good food, great friends). Which wasn’t what we promised, but is really what we meant.

This is for my hermit-artist. My house-husband. As we’d promised to each other when you moved in. As we swore in front of witnesses that night in Atlanta 1,826 days ago today. In forever friendship. In eternal love. You’re still my favorite (and still my only) love.

I promise to only get this sappy in public once every half-decade. We’ll see what I can come up with for the next one.

And to everyone at Dragon*Con this weekend, I wish we could be there. May the bright lights of that city twinkle like fairy dust tonight, amid all the costumes and glitter and nerdy camaraderie. May you find happiness. May the force be with you. May you live long and prosper. May you have blessings, every one.

The change that I’d been waiting for came, and then it came again after that, as it always does. My world is strangely altered, and yet the same, since then.

Josh has been gone now for three days. Today is the fourth. He flew to Pensacola on Sunday, for what I suppose would be called his best friend’s wedding (Julia Roberts movies notwithstanding). I’ve barely heard from him since then, which is to be expected I suppose. Lots of drinking and partying on the beach, from what I’ve heard. It’s been a nice reprieve. I knew intellectually that I’d miss him, even as I was interested to spend a few days alone for the first time in – what? six years?

I had no idea about the visceral reaction I would have, though. I would be sitting on the couch, watching television and I would look up at odd moments, expecting to hear the covers move in the bedroom. But there was nothing. It was jarring each time that it happened.

He is due back home today, though, in just a few hours actually. As a matter of fact, I have some shopping to do before then so I’d better go get dressed!

Tomorrow is Monday again and I don’t know if I have the strength to put on business casual and a bright smile and go off to do battle against the evils of corporate culture once more. The worst part is that I don’t know if I fit in. I can’t tell if I’m doing well. Everyone smiles and mouths polite lies instead of telling the truth. Even me.

I feel hollow today; in stasis waiting for the next change, the next push to set the rock of my world tumbling out of sight over the edge of the next hill. I know why I feel sorry for the maple trees. I see myself in them. We’re both doing our best to stand tall and strong, buffetted by wind that could uproot us and sweep us away to something worse… or better.

Can you resist the wind and still embrace it?

I fear I’ve left this narrative too long. The words are coming only in fits and starts. I think, I type, I pause, I think, I pause, I think some more. Uncertainty is an old friend, one of those who have grown different than you remember and yet you see them so often that you couldn’t possibly refuse to let them in… Perhaps I’ll have the time to do this more often now. Unemployment becomes the writer, starvation gives sweet sauce for the thought of the mind—maybe it was that way in long years past, but I have mouths to feed.

Two mouths to feed, him and me, and one artist in the family is quite enough to keep us on the edge of poverty. I believe in his dreams. I do. I hold them tight in the night, and on the days when I must do things like balance check books. Sadly, though, I must deal with the reality of here and now much too often for my mind. Bills to be paid, and Peter, and even Paul must have his due too eventually. It is my responsibility, I fear: mine and mine alone.

Sometimes I dread it is too much, and I wonder what happened to the girl that used to be so care free. Did she ever exist, or is that just a pleasant echo in my mind? The cares of youth mean but little once they have passed. Will these cares pass too?

I tell myself that they must. They must. I need to wait, and work hard, and be disciplined. Is it my duty to sacrifice, and sacrifice? Is it my arrogance to believe that I am sacrificing, after all? My hubris in action, my pride in all the work I’ve done overshadowed by that feeling of being ill compensated for the work. And now, what work is to be done? There is none.

Patience is the hardest part. Waiting and wondering, hoping for a call returned from someone who cares naught for your hopes and dreams. I know that I am just a number to them, a statistic on some recruiter’s list of prospects. I would rail at the injustice of it all, except.

Excepting that there are worse things in the world. There are women being raped and butchered, their children starving in the darkness, alone. There are bombs in the desert, man killing man. Such is our history, the legacy of mankind. Thus I think it must always be. It is in our imperfect nature: a flaw in our design. Perhaps our blueprints were misread. More likely that we were meant to be this way, for some purpose unknown to our kind.

I am lucky; so very lucky, to have been born in this country, to be living in this time. Fortunate to have the education I’ve had; I am privileged to have the opportunities that I have. In sparse moments that have come too often lately, I forget. I am blessed to have found love and companionship after a mere quarter of a century, when some people in this world never find it at all.

What is a job to these things? What is a steady paycheck compared to life and love, health and safety? Perhaps I am an ungrateful wretch after all. But I try not to forget…