Six years.

I've been laying on the bedroom floor tonight watching Mr. Keller write bills and lick envelopes. The kids are in bed. The dishwasher's humming. I'm in my sweats. In one sweeping moment, I felt something deep in my chest. I felt warm, loved and safe. I am content.  

For our sixth wedding anniversary, we went to Idaho Falls for the afternoon, and we took the truck so we could sit extra close on the drive there. We went to the temple, lingered in the celestial room, and ate at Buddy's later on. 

Eating at Buddy's prior to attending a romantic party-for-two at the Black Swan is only for seasoned lovebirds (those married for five years or longer, who have loved each other through sickness, health, childbirth and other less-than-flattering situations). Buddy's always equates to a delicious garlic overdose of sorts. We walked through the doors, and never stood a chance. Neither one of us cared. 

Once we checked into our pretty room and set the fireplace ablaze, we did what most in-love couples do on a kids-free night: we watched Mitt Romney on Cspan (oh yes, we did).

We slept in, snuggled and went to breakfast, just before heading home to our babies. Later, in the driveway, we kissed and Mr. Keller told me something so sugary it sounded like it was straight from a Hallmark movie. But he doesn't watch Hallmark movies, so it must have been from his heart. It melted mine.

We couldn't wait to get away, but I took note that our conversations almost always seemed to trail back to Danny boy and Morg. I suppose that's what it's all about. 

Oh, love. Six years!

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." 

Louis De Bernieres via nieniedialogues