It’s been hard for me to express how I feel without sounding schmaltzy. And as hard as I try, I don’t think I can--not sound schmaltzy, that is. Maybe that’s why it’ll fit perfectly here in Imperfect Prose. Okay, deep breath; here it goes:
The night at the Chinese restaurant, when you cracked open your cookie and smilingly read the slip of paper aloud. “I’m keeping this one,” you said. I don’t think you know how much that meant to me. I had to sip my tea so as not to get teary. And when again, you pulled that same slip of paper out of your pocket on the way to the airport, and said, “I’m going to frame it.” It made the parting less painful.
Those late night mother-daughter
Old married lady, new married lady,
Believer-to-believer talks
Sometimes with tears, but mostly hugs and laughter; I’m thankful for every minute, proud of the woman you’ve become, healed in giving what I wished I had had.
I am most fortunate, and God, who keeps His promises, is good.
Joining Emily today
You know you’re really lucky when the man you’re married to, who while accompanying you to buy some practical winter boots, does not get annoyed when you say, “Ooh look! Boots that look just the shoes Fanny Brawne wore in Bright Star! You know, Bright Star, my favorite movie?” I loved those shoes the moment I saw them. 
By the way, if you’re anything like me, and you’re watching a cinematically beautiful film, you must watch it twice--once for the visuals, second for the dialogue. Because if you’re anything like me, you’ll remember stuff, like shoes the heroine wore, and you’ll secretly desire them.
So when you go out on a cold winter night looking for practical snow boots, and come home instead with Fanny Brawne’s shoes, and you’re married to a guy who doesn’t question your logic or sarcastically ask, “How old are you?” but rather says, “They’re really cool, and they’re you. Go for it,” well, you know you’re just one lucky bug.
