Forty-one years, and still your hand in mine— not as it was, but dearer for the wear. We’ve watched the seasons silver every vine and learned how much a quiet heart can bear. A wonderful life—not free of rain, but rich in all we helped each other grow: the daily bread, the mending after pain, the thousand little kindnesses we know. If time should grant us one more golden year, or many autumns, tender, deep, and new, I’d choose the life that brought us standing here— and every ordinary day with you.