We almost broke up in March. Well, I threatened, anyway. I even perused various travel sites for the cheapest ticket out, away, anywhere, but couldn’t afford the fare or the time away from school and work. So I came home, as expected.
There was no welcome home—no apology or warm hug—because I stayed out of necessity, a thing not to be rewarded. And you were just as cold as you’d been all month. So I spent most of March away from home and quarantined in the school library, boxed in by books and doubting my judgment.
We’ve never really talked about March, probably because things improved in April, and by May I remembered what exactly I fell in love with. So today, I bought fruit and flowers at a stand in the city and ate a peach on the walk home, overwhelmed with gratitude.
Happy Anniversary, Boston. It’s been a good year.
