She was young and so was he the day that they were wed. Nineteen hundred and fifty. It was true love, they said.
A lovely bride, a handsome groom, a crisp September morn: A wedded love of 53 years, that autumn day, was born.
Commitment lasting through and through: from “Cows are out!” to “Light bill’s due!” From “Go get parts!” to “Call the vet!” to “Have they fixed that combine yet?”
The years brought seven children, too — with glasses, braces, clothes, and shoes, meetings, concerts, games, and plays, open houses, and snow days.
So happy anniversary, Sweet Mama and Dear Dad. I love you oh so truly. You’re my folks — for that, I’m glad.
Welcome to my bad poetry. I originally wrote this poem to honor my parents on their 45th wedding anniversary in 1995. I gave it to them as an anniversary card, and then forgot about the poem. But my mother did not. She kept the card. After her death in 2004, I got it back, along with every other card I’d sent to her in the past 20 years or so.
I found the card again a few weeks ago, when digging through an old trunk full of memories, so I decided to update it. Mom and Dad celebrated their last anniversary together, on Earth anyway, on Sept. 28, 2003, thus the 53 in my awkward poem. But in heavenly years, who’s counting? They’re together forever.