The notes, the vows, the card.

Their name: Riley. Date: June 14, 2027. Tone: warm and funny. Length: about 2 minutes.

How you met, when you knew: bus stop in Portland, pouring rain, she had the only umbrella and offered half of it. three miles to the same neighbourhood. knew about a month in when she drove across town at 11pm because my car died and didn't make it a thing.

Stories: she waited two years while I finished my degree, working doubles, never once said hurry up. the flat with the broken boiler, we slept in coats and she made it funny. Biscuit the dog, who she said was "a small dog" and is not. she got my dad to talk about my mum for the first time in years, just by asking.

What they do, what they say: she reads the manual, I take things apart; between us things get built. she always says "we'll figure it out" and somehow we do. she leaves the last biscuit.

Promises: keep showing up. do the dishes (mostly). say "we'll figure it out" first when it's hard. keep a half of every umbrella for her. never call Biscuit a small dog.

Leave out: nothing. Notes: I'm not a words person, please don't make me sound like a poem.

Riley, you shared an umbrella with a stranger in the rain, and then you shared six years, two flats and one very loud dog with him. I knew about a month in, the night my car died and you drove across town at eleven o'clock and never once made it a thing. That is you. You do the kind thing and then you refuse to mention it.

You waited two years while I finished what I had started, working doubles, and you never said hurry up. When the boiler broke we slept in our coats, and you made it funny. You got my dad talking about my mum again, just by asking. You read the manual; I take things apart; and between us, somehow, everything gets built.

And every time it got hard, you said the four words I now believe more than any others: we'll figure it out.

So here is what I promise. I will keep showing up, on the good days and the long ones. I will do the dishes, most of the time. I will keep half of every umbrella for you. I will never, ever call Biscuit a small dog. And when it gets hard, I will say it first, before you have to: we'll figure it out.

I love you. Let's go and figure it out.

Riley, you shared an umbrella with a stranger in the rain, //
and then you shared six years, two flats //
and one very loud dog with him. //

I knew about a month in, //
the night my car died //
and you drove across town at eleven o'clock //
and never once made it a thing. //

That is you. //
You do the kind thing //
and then you refuse to mention it. //

So here is what I promise. //
I will keep showing up, //
on the good days and the long ones. //
I will do the dishes, most of the time. //
I will keep half of every umbrella for you. //
I will never, ever call Biscuit a small dog. //

And when it gets hard, I will say it first, //
before you have to: //
we'll figure it out.