Plop. Whap. Splat. It was June 2009 and the kissing bugs were out with a flourish. I plowed through them every year this time as I went down to South Georgia to celebrate my grandparents’ wedding anniversary.
This year they were celebrating their 68th anniversary. Sixty nine years with the same person. I couldn’t fathom it. I had been seeing my boyfriend for three years by that time. We talked about the “early days” of our relationship. Yet in my grandparents’ eyes, we’d barely even begun our life together.
This was my third time taking my husband along to one of these family parties. He was used to the heckling that he got from my grandparents by now. “When’re you going to officially join the family?” My grandpa would probe while my grandmother sat by smiling.
At the party, my grandparents proudly enjoyed their cake and family members, proudly pledging to continue loving one another year. Little did we know the time, but we’d only get one more wedding anniversary with them both alive. For now though. I’m only thinking about how I need to wash these kissing bugs off of my car back in Atlanta.