Seven Years Ago Today

11/29/1997 was foolishly carved on a ring I gave Brooke six years ago, one year to the night of our first real date. I had no reason to think we’d be together for a long time, and save for teenage notions of chivalric love, no reason to give a ring to my girlfriend.

That’s what we did in high school. We didn’t question our relationship; we didn’t wonder too much about the future. We lived in the moment of creating a perfect suburban high school love and were blissfully naïve, at least until it was time for one of us to head to the Piedmont, the other to the Berkshires. At that point, we only knew what people told us, that college was the place to explore and grow and learn … and dump your high school sweetheart.

And so we tried. We tried so hard to stay together, and we tried even harder at times to split apart. But dates were like long hours at the library, or flossing: they were things you know you should do, but actually had no real desire to do, whatsoever.

After a year in New York, an impromptu, loving marriage ceremony and a couple of months in Venezuela, here we are. Seven years from sipping hot chocolate in a lofted Hartford coffee bar. Seven years from a dorky attempt at grabbing her hand so she wouldn’t walk out into the street by herself. Seven years from a stolen backseat kiss that took all of the courage I could muster.

Seven years from a night—from a girl, from an infatuation—that remains etched forever in my mind.