Laughing together at old jokes, old memories, old failures. And then crying together at the thought of losing our old dog; the dog of our middle age.

Sitting quietly drinking coffee and reading, briefly catching eyes, flashing a slow smile that says, "I could sit here with you forever."

Fitting into the crook of his neck with every hug and breathing in his smell.

100,000+ loads of shared laundry - clothes, souls, bodies entwining and tumbling together over almost four decades.

A nightly choreographed routine in the kitchen, moving in and out of each other's way to fix a meal, pour a drink, wash the dishes, stop for a kiss.

Dumb fights that break our hearts. Notes on the kitchen counter that say, "I'm sorry."

Building a treehouse in the woods and running away to it to listen to the geese, the wild turkey and the howl of the coyotes.

Standing on the driveway every time one of our kids leaves home again, waving wildly until they are out of sight and whispering to each other, "Damn, we did good. They are fantastic, aren't they?"

Finishing sentences, knowing each other's thoughts, dreaming each other's dreams, cheering each other on, feeling each other's pain.

Turning down each other's side of the bed, just because.

Small irritations and big forgiveness. Mostly overlooking stuff.

Crawling into bed at night knowing -- once we both land -- that we are home. We are home. We are each other's home.

Remembering every day how ridiculously lucky we are to have found each other and to stay in love when everything seems to conspire against long-term fidelity.

Grinning like teenagers sometimes because we like each other so darn much!

Praying we get decades more together.

This is what 38 years of marriage looks like ...