The celebration of the second year of marriage seems to be forgotten. Known colloquially as the cotton anniversary, it seems to take the middle child’s seat at the anniversary sibling dinner.
The first anniversary is a big deal—making it together the first year seems to be a milestone, but the next is five or seven, depending on who’s talking.
At two years I want to write her a letter, and I want to share it with you;
To say that our love has become commonplace would be completely inaccurate—an affront to our passion for life and each other, but to say that our commonplace life has become my love would not be amiss an inch.
I love you in the folded sheets, in the organized bookshelves, and in the washed dishes.
I love you in the inside jokes, in the Kleenex buying, and in forgetting anyone else is in the room.
My love for you has grown from just you—staring into your eyes and enjoying the sound of your voice—to you and me together in a home, waiting for our little girl to come.
Because this second anniversary is not us leaving the honeymoon phase and starting to trudge through marriage, but is honeymooning in our day to day, falling in love all over again over clean laundry and an organized life.
Falling in love with you is my favorite thing to do, and sometimes, I think I can’t love you possibly any more than I do, and on frequent occasion, I am proven haplessly wrong by your perfect for me existence that is just being you.
So at a second anniversary—an anniversary of cotton, I hope that you know that our love is not commonplace, but that my love for you has grown to the commonplace in life, spreading each day to a new nook of our life.