It still feels like it’s only been a few days, or maybe weeks. Karlyn and I were passengers in Amanda’s car, the autumn sunshine pouring into our laps as we sped along the back roads. We were running late, but that didn’t slow down the usual light-speed chatter. I had the back seat to myself — and you’d better believe I billowed across the entire space — while Karlyn balanced several vases weighed down with flowers. Every so often, one of them would stop the conversation to gasp, “We’re going to your wedding!”

Some seven hours later, I was in a car again, a passenger again, but this time Danny was driving. My husband was driving. We hadn’t wanted a limo or a rented car; we wanted to leave simply,  alone, together. And we had so looked forward to those first moments driving off in our car — to be together, alone. To just laugh and sigh that the whole day couldn’t have unfolded more beautifully or with more love from our family and friends. To get out of our heavy formal wear when we reached our home, and immediately start talking about what clothes we should (finally) pack for the honeymoon in St. Lucia. And somewhere around 3:00 a.m., to wander into the kitchen and heat up leftover panang curry from our rehearsal dinner. Because we could. We were married and we could do anything. Including 3:00 a.m. panang.

Some people joke about marriage — “the end of the road,” “game over;” wives become “the ball and chain.” On the contrary, I think marrying my best friend was the most freeing single event of my life.

Thank you, Danny. Thanks for asking me to marry you that evening by the fire. Thanks for promising — so loudly and forcefully that all our guests laughed — to love me forever. Thanks for two wonderful years of anything.
 ~ Laura