Ancient History

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Life engaged

We were standing on a grassy green hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, the bay, and the Pacific Ocean. It was a spectacular and sublime setting for question and answer. Marry? Yes.

For several minutes, we stood looking down on the rocky, battered shore on the Pacific side. We said nothing for quite awhile. There were no friends or family there to rush hugs around us and shed happy tears, no black-suited restaurant maitre-de popping a cork on a champagne bottle, no arena full of screaming basketballs fans staring at a jumbo-tron or TV crews or sky-writing planes finishing a quickly fading question mark.

It was just the two of us, relieved because we had been silently skirting the issue for several months. I was going to be his wife, he was going to be my husband. It was March 19, 1996. He was 25-years-old, I was 24.

We took a picture of the spot where he asked me to marry him.

We held hands and made our way down a narrow, winding trail back to the pebbly parking lot where we left his car. He opened the trunk and the blue cooler inside. We made turkey and cheese sandwiches and sipped Coke.

I felt shy and beautiful and beloved.

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