I paid for the wedding bands because he didn't have any money, although he worked like a dog.
My mother wore black, my sister wore the dress I had asked her not to wear, the minister had my brother-in-law in his office and his hand out for money almost before we'd finished walking back down the aisle.
A friend of a friend took photographs and most of them were not great.
It took a year before we realized that being married meant something different than we'd thought it had.
It took five years to accept that difference.
After ten years, we had been through some fire together, and had escaped with some scars but no lasting damage.
At twenty-five years, we came to a bridge that appeared to be out. Only one of us could cross the river, it seemed. But we both ended up on the other side. Together.
The thirty-year anniversary was overshadowed by health issues, but we're still here.