The North Star Spousal Unit

Yesterday was my parents’ 67th wedding anniversary. That’s an amazing number, made even more incredible by the fact that it took them 55 years to start getting along. Considering my matrimonial record, that perseverance gene is not one I inherited.

Last night I talked to my mom and learned that they’d had a wonderful day together, reminiscing over old times and old friends, later having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law. It all sounded so sweet. The two have become such a unit that it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. My mother even seems to have forgotten that she likes French dressing. On my visit there last month, I noticed her dousing her salad with bleu cheese dressing, my dad’s lifelong favorite.

I wouldn’t have hung in there and waited for 55 years for someone to stop sniping at me, but the result of my parents’ persistence—or stubbornness—is something strong and North-star-like. One of those few treasured things that can be counted on as unchanging, that aids navigation in rough waters, and gives courage as it lights up the dark.