3 years ago, my wife and I ran desperately to the
courthouse, the first in our county to be same-sex married. I wore my yellow
gingham dress with the turquoise crinoline, and Jill wore her scrubs and a Carhartt
jacket—she had surgery that day, and a fellow doctor was covering for her as we
stood in line, cameras clicking and reporters writing our words down as we sat,
the representative face of gay marriage in our city, because we both had to be
to work.
I could never have imagined that I would find someone like
Jill. I am blessed every day by her gentleness and her love, the way she cares
for me when I’m sick or hurt or even just ADHD flavor overwhelmed, the way she makes me laugh even when it is the
last thing I would ever want to do. Her smile and her quick kisses in the
morning make every 8 am a celebration. The way she hauls trash to the dump, and
then cries at a nature documentary, my perfect blend of tough and tender. Sometimes,
I look over at her and wonder why a woman like her would ever want to marry a
lesbian trash raccoon like me.
I wish I had the words—it’s funny, words are all I work
with, but when I try to talk about Jill, they fail me somehow—to describe how
much I love her, and how she completes my life, a hole I never knew existed now
totally filled in the shape of her love.
I am so lucky to get to spend three years as her wife, and I
hope we have so many more adventures together.
