Saturday was our one year wedding anniversary. And when the morning rain thwarted our plans for an afternoon sail around the harbor, we made new ones.
An afternoon movie at the Paris theater. This one. A film about grey hairs in a theater filled with them. The kind of movie that breaks your heart and puts it back together again. Comfort in flannel shirts and freshly milled lumber and marriage vows. Don’t watch the trailer, just trust me.
Next there was a walk through Central Park where James spotted Pale Male in the trees outside the Met. No doubt Octavia was nearby. Marriage of a different kind.
And onward to James Turell at the Guggenheim. From 5:45 pm – 7:45 pm on Saturdays, the museum has a pay-what-you-wish policy, and so we handed over a crumpled $10 and spent an exhilarating 45 minutes with every grumpy tourist in New York. It was better than it sounds. Seeing people get angry about light is good for putting things in perspective.
It wasn’t the day we planned, but it finished by being the perfect testament for why any one would be foolish enough to get married in the first place: even when everything else goes differently than you expected, you know you’ve got one rock steady.