Fifty years ago today, I fell in love with my bride-to-be for the second time in as many years.
The first time found me hanging with friends at a high school game when, a few rows back, some girls seemed to be having more fun than anyone watching the losing cause had a right to.
When I turned to discover the source of the racket, my eyes locked on those of a girl I’d never met, long enough for my soul to register a life-altering thought I knew could not be emanating entirely from myself.
“There goes my agency.”
It would be months before our first date—let the record show she asked me out first—but only weeks for her to then tell me we were too young to be exclusive and why couldn’t we just be friends?
A year or so later, 50 years ago today, in fact, Kari sought me out at school the day her father was rushed to the hospital in a coma. It was also her birthday.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?”
Four hours later, sitting on the same bleachers where my fate had been cosmically sealed with just one look, Kari and I were back on and remain so, agency and all, to this day. Her day. Our day.
Happy Birthday, Kiddo.
Author’s Note:
This post was originally written for my Instagram account at @TheHousetops. It is based on a much longer account that can be read on this blog at Four Words.
