how I met your father
March 17, 2014 § 8 Comments
Long before your father was my husband, he was a classmate in a college English course. An athlete, tall and broad but with an unthreateningly playful posture, he consumed classroom discussions in much the same way he filled the physical space of our dated desks; unexpectedly gracefully with a quick and easy sense of humor. He was a smile at the other end of a casual hello, a friendly stranger I didn’t really know beyond the context of our course schedule. At the end of the term we moved in different directions following the path of our studies to different corners of campus.
Two years later your father and I met again, quite accidentally, thanks to another man and an Irish tradition. I visited a St. Patrick’s Day party having begrudgingly set aside my studies to claim a festively frothy green beverage and disprove theories of my mythological existence to my boyfriend’s curious companions. Your father was the first familiar face in a room full of strangers. In much the same way he once filled a small classroom with his easy conversation, he created a quiet space in the noisy nonsense of the evening’s antics. Salvaging a seat to anchor us in the congested crowd your father perched precariously beside me on his bad knee and we exchanged stories from lost years with easy banter. We were not yet friends, but rather comfortable companions of chance.
Your father continued to shadow my dates with an endearingly convenient coincidence of fate. Sitting beside me at every opportunity he gifted me unexpected reasons to smile. Never more than companions in circumstance, we drifted across each other’s days in happy happenstance. After graduation your father moved away while I settled into the end of my relationship, finding a refreshing sense of independence in more solitary endeavors.
Despite my contentment, I missed your father’s easy company and invited his friendship with a note whimsically mailed to an uncertain address in hopes we might invite chance to create cause; an excuse not to say goodbye. No longer neighbors we limited the space between our days by writing letters and filling our free time with phone calls, getting to know more about the person at the other end of our memories. Over time letters became visits until the future became something we moved toward together.
Today, on the anniversary of my serendipitous reunion with your father, I am thinking of the moments that culminated in our life today. Falling in love is a mystery of accidental good fortune and conscious appreciation. Your father and I recognized something between us long before we created a life together and to me the magic is in the intention that invited choice; a series of serendipitous meetings and a collection of intentional hellos that became the story of how I met your father.
scribblechic 
that cool
Thanks!
Now that is a story–thanks for sharing. It is funny how things that are meant to be just work out. Happy belated St. Patty’s Day to you and the Mr.
Thank you! It seemed overdue that I preserve this piece of our beginning, here, in the middle of our present.
Seems I have already preserved this piece of our past. Just noted “on bended knee” in the related reading recommendations. I suppose this means I will be the character at family holidays retelling favorite stories to the frustration of well-informed listeners.
Sweet serendipity… what a beautifully woven writing piece 🙂
Thank you, Caitlin. The most endearing element of this experience, for me, was my daughter’s editorial input behind the scenes as she verified favorite pieces of the now familiar family story.
Over the years she has marveled at the notion that there could have been someone else, mercilessly giggling at the silliness of her mother ever having a boyfriend. She was equally smitten that her father so chivalrously kneeled on his bad knee or, more mischievously, chaperoned my dates.
I think my favorite summation came some time ago when my daughter said, “I know why you picked Daddy! It was because he made you smile and wouldn’t leave you alone.” I remember thinking then that there is a quieter magic to kindness; companionship and cause for smiles are no small gift.
It sounds like your daughter is wise beyond her years. A quiet companion with persistence and goals of laughter makes for a wonderful partner.
Children are a wonderful mirror of our most important truths. Thank you for the moment’s reflection and kind words.