Eight years

Eight years ago today, I met a guy. I wrote all about how we met here, and all about our first date here. They're still stories I love telling, because they're both so improbable and sweet. And so dated, in a way. So perfectly and inescapably of the era. No one meets on Myspace anymore, do they? Yep. It was 2006.
It was somewhere near 10 degrees the night of our first date, and, figuring fresh flowers would freeze in the back seat of the car, he instead brought me seed packets. (He knew I was a gardener.) There's something so metaphorical about that. When I got home (late, late) that night, I put the seed packets in a shoebox under my bed. Shoeboxes are where I keep almost all things meaningful and significant. 
The following morning, a four-month-old Pete woke me up, swatting at the shoebox under the bed, making the seeds rattle. This was very tempting to the Pete-cat. He proceeded to pull the box out from under the bed and wrestle it around until the seed packets fell out. He chewed on a few of them, then curled up in the upturned shoebox and went to sleep.
He knew, didn't he? He knew, and he wanted to get in on the ground floor. 
Eight years later, my garden rules my life spring, summer, and fall. Pete is all grown up and thinking about trade school (kidding). Patrick is still that sweet guy, still surprising me with his kindness and generosity. I can't wait to see where the coming years take us.

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