My wife’s grandmother had one date
with her future husband, back when movies
were silent and a nickel. Its title is lost to the ages,
and they didn’t even hold hands.
Her little brother and sister sat between them.
They were married over fifty years
and had four children.
One evening my wife’s father came to visit
his friend, a fellow musician, and met his sister.
He wrote letters to her, and in one he said
that when he played his saxophone,
the music on his stand dissolved
and he would see her face.
They married six months before the war.
After a Christmas snowstorm, our son took his girlfriend
to see their favorite neighborhood lights display.
She turned around to brush some snow
off a lit plastic snowman, and when she turned back
he was on one knee.
He was married with his grandfather’s wedding ring.
And I, the romantic poet,
proposed to my beloved, my wife of forty-five years,