My boys nodded their little heads, their golden brown eyes large in their faces–the two identical faces that looked just like my own. Even I couldn't deny it.
"Okay, you boys run inside. I'll be in to make you lunch while your daddy gets his tools," Bree said, sitting up in the hammock, laughing at herself when she fell backwards, unable to pull her weighted body up.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her into my arms, kissing her lips and falling in love with her, just like I still did a thousand times a day.
That evening four years ago in the Pelion church when Bree had walked down the candlelit aisle toward me on Norm's arm, taking my breath away, I had vowed that I'd love her forever, only her, and I meant it to the depths of my soul.
And even now, even with all of life's craziness and noise, even with my own job and Bree's thriving catering business, each night before I fall asleep, I make it a point to turn to my wife and silently say, Only you, only ever you. And her love slips quietly around me, holding me, anchoring me, reminding me that the loudest words are the ones we live.