I am fifty-four years old.
Roland and I married when I was twenty-three.
I remember almost nothing about the ceremony itself.
Only the way Roland’s hands shook slightly holding mine, more nervous than I’d ever seen him before or since.
In a small church on the edge of Ashgrove Hollow, the same town where we still live today.
We bought our house two years later.
The realtor called it « full of potential, » a phrase we later joked meant « needs constant work, » which turned out to be entirely accurate.
A modest colonial with a wide backyard and a flower bed neither of us had any real talent for maintaining.
We raised two children there.
Owen, our oldest, now thirty, living overseas with his wife.
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