Nine. The whole nine yards. Dressed to the nines. Nine planets. A stitch in time saves nine. Nine months from conception to birth. Cats with nine lives. Numerologic the magnified three, ancient sacred humanitarian number connected to inspired change, invention, and growth. Single numbers multiplied by nine results in digits that add to nine. 2 x 9 = 18 3 x 9 = 27 4 x 9 = 36. Hebrews referred to nine as the symbol of immutable Truth. A three-fold cord is not quickly broken.
This will be our ninth year together.
I remember after just weeks of knowing you we backpacked to Smith Lake in the high Sierra. The light was golden and the cool clean air felt like we were close to heaven. We went climbing on the granite rocks around the little natural spring-fed lake. I walked waist deep through the freezing crystal clear water and green reeds, my legs beneath me numb, pale, and moving slowly to avoid kicking up the fine bottom silt, to retrieve your snagged fishing lure. We napped on the lapping lake bank, watching the wind move the tall grass and the sugar pine boughs.
At night you cooked over the fire, and after dinner we walked to the crest of the lake bank to see the reflections of heaven’s stellar bodies in the water. There were so many stars we couldn’t identify any constellations but we sipped sweet sherry out of your hip flask. When we slumbered in your little tent carefully placed on gathered pine duff we were smoky-smelling and tired and happy, and oh, oh such quiet sweetness, we felt the earth spinning through the heavens. In the morning after breakfast you were delighted I wanted to plink at cans with your revolver. “You’re fun!” you said. And after three days we packed up camp and hiked over the ridge, and from there we descended into the valley, delighted with our wildness and our love.
Nine years and I still dream only of you, nine years ago today we laughed all the way to the courtroom inside your aunt’s old hotel, and my Dad handed me to you, and your Dad led us through the I do. Four months didn’t give our parents much time to prepare but at least we didn’t run to Reno, although we discussed it. Both our Grandmothers told us it was the right way to get married, with certainty and with love.
I wore my Mom’s sleek satin wedding dress made by her Grandma, and your Mom made my bouquet from silk flowers and pearls. We smashed the cake because it was funny, and sipped excellent champagne we had bought for a song because the corks were dangerously tight and frighteningly ballistic. My cousin caught the bouquet and R caught the garter. It rained so much it caused a mud slide on the highway east of us and my Grandma told me rain at a wedding was a sign of good luck.
What I remember feels like impressions of birdsongs and dappled sunlight. I have loved knowing you. I do love knowing you. It has been an amazing nine years, my friend. I happily anticipate whatever comes, so long as I am with you.
This will be our ninth year together.
I remember after just weeks of knowing you we backpacked to Smith Lake in the high Sierra. The light was golden and the cool clean air felt like we were close to heaven. We went climbing on the granite rocks around the little natural spring-fed lake. I walked waist deep through the freezing crystal clear water and green reeds, my legs beneath me numb, pale, and moving slowly to avoid kicking up the fine bottom silt, to retrieve your snagged fishing lure. We napped on the lapping lake bank, watching the wind move the tall grass and the sugar pine boughs.
At night you cooked over the fire, and after dinner we walked to the crest of the lake bank to see the reflections of heaven’s stellar bodies in the water. There were so many stars we couldn’t identify any constellations but we sipped sweet sherry out of your hip flask. When we slumbered in your little tent carefully placed on gathered pine duff we were smoky-smelling and tired and happy, and oh, oh such quiet sweetness, we felt the earth spinning through the heavens. In the morning after breakfast you were delighted I wanted to plink at cans with your revolver. “You’re fun!” you said. And after three days we packed up camp and hiked over the ridge, and from there we descended into the valley, delighted with our wildness and our love.
Nine years and I still dream only of you, nine years ago today we laughed all the way to the courtroom inside your aunt’s old hotel, and my Dad handed me to you, and your Dad led us through the I do. Four months didn’t give our parents much time to prepare but at least we didn’t run to Reno, although we discussed it. Both our Grandmothers told us it was the right way to get married, with certainty and with love.
I wore my Mom’s sleek satin wedding dress made by her Grandma, and your Mom made my bouquet from silk flowers and pearls. We smashed the cake because it was funny, and sipped excellent champagne we had bought for a song because the corks were dangerously tight and frighteningly ballistic. My cousin caught the bouquet and R caught the garter. It rained so much it caused a mud slide on the highway east of us and my Grandma told me rain at a wedding was a sign of good luck.
What I remember feels like impressions of birdsongs and dappled sunlight. I have loved knowing you. I do love knowing you. It has been an amazing nine years, my friend. I happily anticipate whatever comes, so long as I am with you.
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