A mountain where she comes from is really a hill, though the locals are pretty impressed still with their neck of the woods.
So, that very chilly morning I scraped the ice from our windshield, etching a message for her in the process, and then I took her to my mountain for which she had one word: “magnificent!”
Impressively beautiful, gloriously majestic, breathtakingly awe-inspiring, the mountain rose far above us from where we stood there encased in layers of warmth-providing wool.
And now it is our mountain.
And today is our one-month anniversary.
In that month – the first month of our marriage – she has scraped and cleaned and scrubbed and painted with me my house, preparing it for sale, etching a message for me in the process, on the floors, on the walls, on the mirrors and on the windows – that her love for me, like the mountain, is impressively beautiful, gloriously majestic, breathtakingly awe-inspiring as seen in her work there in paint-splattered jeans.
“The supreme happiness in life,” someone wrote, “is the conviction that we are loved.”
That conviction is mine.
And it is ours.
