Dear Andy ~
Twenty-one years ago we had a rather rainy summer, not unlike the one we are having this year. Great for the gardens, not so great for sunny summer fun. We were both beginning to come out from relationships that had hurt, and we were both finally learning to be happy on our own. I took the rainy season as a sign of healing and forgiveness, a way of moving beyond the past while honoring our present. I don’t think either of us intended to find a love that would last beyond a night at Oh Bar, so when your friend Patrick invited me to sit down at your table, I sat across from you and did my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, and the way your gaze cut through to my heart unlike any other man I’d ever met.
You seemed reasonable and fair, kind and grounded. Something about you felt calm and safe, and though I sensed you were not quite over injuries suffered in the recent past, I also sensed you had accepted life in a way that my immaturity could not yet fathom.
The more we talked, the more I fell into your blue eyes. More thrilling was the hope and sense that you were falling into me as well – I honestly felt you were so far above my league that I wasn’t even sure you meant to be talking to me.
Outside, the night felt calm and quiet. After raining all day, the clouds had departed and the world felt clean and new, the way it sometimes does after a heavy rainfall. Do you remember walking to our cars? I was going to follow you home because we both knew something special was afoot, even as I fought against falling so quickly. I didn’t expect the ride to be so long, and I didn’t mind in the least; I would have followed you anywhere.
When we arrived at your house, it was dim, but you carried that sense of safety and calm with you – something you would provide no matter where we found ourselves – Boston, Ogunquit, New York – and I understood then that it didn’t matter the precise place or location: you were already my home.
When I left, it was practically morning. Fumbling awkwardly in your kitchen, I told you I’d probably never see you again, and as would become the case many times over in the ensuing decades, I’d never been so wrong, and so happy to be wrong.
Happy anniversary, Drew.
I love you. ~ A.
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