I remember sitting on my bed, typing into a narrow instant messenger box, as tired that morning as I was this but for such different reasons.
Midterms, I think it was. I was 20, a sophomore, and History of the Western Civilization had taken the last out of me.
He suggested coffee – off campus because the stuff in the dining hall was terrible.
I brought my books, bought my own coffee because I wasn’t sure whether this counted as a date. We settled into chairs in the corner of the small coffee shop and our story began.
That was seven years ago.
Today our daughter is one month old, a milestone of her own: a lot has changed in seven years.
Today the chair where it all began sits in our living room and we have more varieties of coffee makers than any one household needs (French press, Chemex, drip, mocha pot, individual press…) and every morning we drink our coffee out of the same mugs, creatures of habit. Not that much has changed in seven years.
And so the years go on, love, and the chapters of our story follow one after another. But every October, when the leaves fall and the air turns crisp and the mums by the front porch bloom burnt red, I’ll remember that morning when I first began to fall in love with you.