This is not an anniversary I care to remember, yet still I do, a shotgun wedding, a hippie priest, my friends gathered in a circle on the alter, to bear witness to a travesty we all knew would never last, love long evaporated, leaving only he residue, like the dust left after a spring rain, staining everything, rea love destined to hit me later, maybe a number of times, Cupid taking target practice in my heart, for a love I might appreciate over time, though I think back to this moment when my wife to bed held the baby we already had, desperate to play the role of the virgin she never was, more Mary Magdalene than the Virgin Mother, she clinging to shreds of love like the scared Vail of Turin.
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