You—

You'll read this fifty years from now. That's the deal, right? And even though it's fifty years from now, I know how we'll be. You'll have wrinkles at the edges of your eyes and around your mouth from laughter. You might even be self-conscious about them, but they'll be my favorite thing. Laughter framing your sparkling eyes.

I have a hard time talking like this to you. You know it. But fifty years from now, my strength will have faded. Maybe I'll have to use a cane. (If I do, I hope your artistic talent has come to use. I like the idea of us sitting in a sun room while you paint flames on it.) And maybe I'm strong in another way now; maybe I can always tell you what I love about you.

So it doesn't matter to me that I'm not physically strong anymore. You'll still be beautiful (those laughing eyes get me every time. You remember the time at Lake Maria? The first time we kissed? The fading sun off the water and your eyes! Your eyes— they gave me the courage to lean over and draw you in, even though my heart was threatening to jump out of my chest.)

We've had kids now, and a dog, and nights sitting on a swing on the front porch (I'm sure you asked me to install it and it took all day, and I lost the instructions and was cursing all furniture that ever existed. I'm sure you came over, wrapped your arms around me and picked up whatever tool I was holding. I stormed inside to cool off and you carefully started sifting through the bits and pieces. And I went in and cooked dinner and brought it out as an apology.

I hope this happened, even though I lost my cool.)

All I can imagine are the moments we haven't had yet. And they're beautiful. People knock growing old. I see those commercials all the time for wrinkles and crows feet and grey hair. Like those are all bad things. But they're my favorite things about us. It means we lived and laughed and had kids that drove us crazy. Why would we want destroy evidence of that? It's our life written on our skin and thinning hair and sparkling eyes. And it's beautiful.

I can't imagine anything better than growing old with you.

—Me

***

My dearest Mattie,

I'm trying not to laugh right now. I can hear you, bent over the kitchen table, drumming your fingers impatiently and swearing under your breath every so often. Are you searching for the right words to impress me? You always strive for perfection, and even though it sometimes drives me nuts, it's something I've always loved.

I mean, how hard you try, not that you've managed to be perfect. So what else do I love? Everything. That's a cop out though, so I have to tell you.

I love the way you kiss me.

I love the way you make me laugh. Your jokes are horribly corny, but I like that you know those are my favorite. I love that when I can't handle the world and I collapse into myself that you can startle laughter out of me. Love it.

I love that I can drag you to museums, and you stay up the whole night before, researching artists to impress me.

I love that we don't need to talk. That we are comfortable sitting in silence, and so much can be said without words. I also love that we can stay up all night talking. You never bore me.

I love how hard you've tried the past fifty years. I mean, I'm guessing here. But based on our entire relationship, you've more than tried.

I love how you are as a father. I love that our kids have curly hair like yours, and you are patient with them even when your temper is frayed to the breaking point. (Guesswork again! But the truth, I think.)

I love your crooked smile. It's mischievous, just like you sometimes. Your childlike glee at the world: love it.

I told you I loved everything about you. Now I've even written it down, and you've made me miss time when I could be kissing you (although you're still swearing over at the table. Don't you know I'll love anything you write me?)

Matt, I've loved the last fifty years. And yes there have been hard times (remember that time I didn't take—well, whatever it was— seriously? It was important to you and I'm still sorry for that fight), but I like to think there have been more good times than bad.

Because you are with me. And I am with you. How can the bad ever outweigh that?

With all my love,

Rachel

***

You—

You're teasing me right now for wanting to write this down, but I want to remember this exactly. Perfection and all that. So even though I only grabbed a post-it, I'll stick it up on the fridge next to Nate's first grade school picture. You can pretend you're looking at that when you're reading this. Nate won't mind.

The night was balmy and twilight fell upon the pair as they ambled out to the front porch. There was no swing, so they settled for the two rocking chairs nestled in the corner. He leaned his cane (a Chinese dragon snaking around it) against the rocker as he eased into it. Hands shaking, he pulled out a faded envelope and handed it to her. She did the same, eyes smiling. Before either opened them, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, and she took his hand in hers.

Though neither of them needed the letters, the rustling of yellowed paper filled the night.