Happy 50th Birthday, Wife

It’s strange, this 50th birthday thing.

Because I still remember that time when I was 17, the first time I saw you on campus.

That’s the type of girl I want to marry, I thought.

We had never spoken.

We didn’t need to.

When you see your soulmate, there’s no need for words.

Unfortunately, now you’re stuck with them. The soulmate could have been a neurosurgeon or a CEO. Alas, yours was a writer.

And how unnecessary—because this thing was already written.

The girl from West Virginia, kind, smart, and balanced.

The kid from Connecticut, goofy, awkward, and, well, awkward.

Everyone knows I got the better deal.

Just ask the kids.

Along with me, they’ve had a front-row seat to beauty. (Aside from those weird pajamas you finally got rid of.)

It starts with the face, which on your 50th birthday remains radiant and Botox-free.

And it goes from there.

You’re a doctor.

You’re a mother.

You’re a daughter.

You’re a sister.

And as I am qualified to say, you’re the perfect life partner.

Several decades in, even my parents like you better.

It’s just that you can do it all.

I know—because I see it with my very own eyes.

There’s the work.

Then there’s the volunteer work.

Above those two is the parenting, always done with love.

The Bills—you pay them and watch them.

You handle the phone calls, too.

And the nourishment—that’s all you.

Not once have you looked for recognition.

There’s just that smile.

When I remind the kids how maternally blessed they are, they vigorously concur. (The consensus does not appear as firm when discussing the paternal blessing.)

When others speak of the work that goes into marriage, I notice you vigorously concur.

On my end, there is no work.

Because scant few humans can teach us about the pinnacle of humanity without uttering a single word.

I’m privileged to spend my life with one of them.

Happy 50th birthday, wife.