I didn’t expect to celebrate our 10th anniversary in the middle of the darkest times, but I don’t have the power to change it for the better immediately (and I wish I could): I only hope that next time we will do it under much happier circumstances. There is always hope.
Ten years ago the day was as radiant as it is today (what a sudden change: yesterday it was bleak and gloomy), and I was excited, but, somehow, very calm inside, despite all the jolly havoc going on around: I knew for certain that I was doing the right—maybe the most essential— thing in my life, tying up the knots with the best man in the world.
I remember that day in all the variety of the tiniest details: our cab to the Hill where the ceremony took place (the cab was a bit too big and bulky for only a few of us, but I loved the idea to have more space for my dress), my bouquet with the freshest Cambs roses that my precious friends fetched for me in the early morning (mind you, they weren’t local—just like me—at the time yet they found the flower shop, where I ordered it, with no delay), the ceremony with Pachelbel’s Canon (I was absolutely not crying, not at all), and then, our walk to La Margherita, the restaurant where our reception was and whose owners have remembered us ever since, and merry shouting from the boats on the Cam from young girls while we were taking pictures on Magdalene Bridge —“Hey you, congratulations! Congratulations to you both!”—and Larry’s eyes and his smile.
It’s been ten years, but it feels like it’s been only one long day, full of love and joy. And may it be more. Happy anniversary, darling.
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