Poems for a 60th Wedding Anniversary

We said "for richer or poorer" but we meant: I will eat gas station sushi with you at midnight and call it a date. We said "in sickness and in health" but we meant: I will hold your hair back. I will learn your medications. I will sleep in hospital chairs that were designed by people who have never slept. We said "till death do us part" but what we meant was scarier: I choose you tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that. And the one where you're annoying. And the one where I'm worse. A wedding is a beautiful lie we tell in our best clothes. A marriage is the truth that follows— messy, loud, full of arguments about thermostats and whose family we're visiting for Christmas. I would marry you again. Not the ceremony— I'd skip that. I'd marry the Tuesday nights. The grocery runs. The way you still reach for my hand in the car like it's a reflex you never want to lose. That's the real vow: the reaching.

The restaurant was too loud, so we came home early. Now the anniversary flowers lean above the sink while you wash and I dry. We remember the first apartment, the year we nearly left, the joke that survived both. Another year is not proof of perfection. It is this towel, this plate, and two people still willing to discuss where it belongs.

For sixty years, they have disagreed about tea. He leaves the bag too long. She removes it too soon. Neither admits the other has occasionally been right. The diamond anniversary speeches mention devotion and endurance. They mention neither kettle. But every morning, one asks, Tea? and the other answers, Yes, please.