Seven years.  It's hard to believe Jeff and I have been together that long, but today is the day we met, in 2003.  He, fresh-faced with an asymmetrical haircut and I, a twenty-one year old Starbucks barista.

When I look at old photos I marvel at how young we looked.  A couple of kids, no doubt about that.  And now that cute fellow has become a handsome man, one that holds babies with ease and rewires light fixtures like a champ.  When he walks from a room I can't help but stare at his back, his shoulders once loose with the leisure of youth now a little heavier, but strong under the chattels of age.

Over the years we've gone from two boys busting around town in his Volkswagen Beetle to a pair of men who decided to become a family.  While I once recalled memories as easily as pulling data from a memory stick, the millions of details are getting foggy, now distilled into a feeling.  I'm starting to understand why, instead of specifics, my Mom tells me that as a baby, I was good.  These things have a way of becoming simple: good, happy, yes, rest, comfort, quiet, love.   

(Top to bottom: I wooed him with a photoshoot a month into dating, 2003.  A trip to Jamaica, 2006. Me, 2007. Him, 2007. Nick and Natasha's wedding, 2008.  My birthday, 2009.  Mexico, February 2010. April 2010.  And yesterday, July 11, 2010.)