Nostalgia and sentiment filter through our subconscious as our wedding anniversary date draws ever closer.  In fact, it has succeeded in just about the arrival point.  That point at which, at the age of 18, we were (finally!)  joined in matrimony, in wedlock, to spend the entirety of our lives together, fulfilling a desire we had pledged to one another years earlier. 

How that for early-age, late-state romance?

In just over a week we will have been married for fifty-seven years.  Verily how time doth flee!  Is it only fifty-seven years?  Is it that long ago?  It seems like only yesterday, it seems like forever. 

It was, and it is.

Last night, when we were busy in the kitchen making a pizza for dinner, listening to "Randy's Vinyl Cafe" (Randy Bachman) on CBC radio, as we are wont to do, he played a recording of Fats Domino singing Blueberry Hill.  I stopped rolling out the bread dough, my husband suspended chopping the vegetables, and we clasped one another to dance to the rhythm and music of a tune that had a memorable history for us.

Riley was puzzled, just as Button had always been, whenever we'd engage in these strange antics.  He nipped at our heels, threw back his head and howled, and then he emitted short, sharp little barks of annoyed irritation at the behaviour he found mysterious, beyond his ken.

But not beyond his experience.