The “traditional” first anniversary gift is paper (followed by cotton, leather, fruit on the second, third, fourth…). John and I have that gift in the bag. If you and I are friends on facebook (and if we’re not, let’s take the plunge!), click here for how our letter-writing habits got incorporated into our proposal!
Since we first started dating, John and I have written love letters, love notes, quick scribbles of affection on post-its. I’ve found notes tucked in between the pages of books on my nightstand, in my suitcase, on the front door. I’ve mailed John postcards from California to Jordan, or simply letters written in Boston to our home address while we were living under the same roof. When John was in Guatemala, he wrote me at least once a week but, having no place to mail them, kept them with him, and then handed me the thick stack when he met me at the Guatemala City airport. Before he left for Ghana, I wrote him a little note (they were short!)–thoughts about what I loved and missed about him; favorite quotes; a Valentine’s card–for every day he was away.
Today, we’ve been married a year. I can’t believe it’s been a year, and there is simply too much to say about what I love about this man, what I love about our marriage. One of the minute, perhaps even trivial, things that I love is that we write to each other. At this time, there is very little that I love more than coming home from class, opening my mailbox, and seeing his very distinct, crowded handwriting. My heart literally skips a beat.
Happy Anniversary, John. Thank you for being my love, my husband. This last year truly has been the best of my life.
How the music was made.
for anna oppenheimer and john jesus on their wedding day
She decided on a picnic
And he selected the wine.
She melted the chocolate for truffles,
Rinsed the grapes for snacking,
Contemplated the perfect tree.
He gathered butter and stories
For bread, kneaded the dough with laughter,
Made a mess of the kitchen.
They knelt together by the stove
awaiting the miraculous rising
of wheat,
Fingers and shoulders
skimming the waters Of closesness
Eyelids and lips leaning on each other
Like books.
Love was there.
Always there.
Minutely contained and
Ravenously known,
Like a june-bug in a cupped palm
Outside,
The sun spread honey
And the world whirled by
In its new autumn shoes,
But inside their kitchen
Of white and dark tiles,
They were constructing lyric
And the geometry of fitting.
She began humming.
His heart groaned with yes.
We do? Yes.
We will? Yes.
Always. Always. Always.
What had their hands held
Until this very now?
He/She/They reached
And the future chapters of their lives
Slid into cadence.
There would be time for picnics.
Oh heart.
It is a madness to go wanting.
It is an ecstasy to exist
As these two, these two strings,
side by side,
On an instrument
Orpheus whittled from bone,
As G-d
draws her palm across you like
breathing
And elicits a singular note.
-horace ballard
anna in med school 
