“I’m sorry I’m not more romantic,” he says. Spoken after 31 years of marriage to one woman—me.

We celebrate the remainder of our anniversary with a brisk stroll through our neighborhood; I think back to the earlier days—when he’d bring me flowers just because. Or when he’d whisk me away on a surprise outing. “I see romance differently now,” I say. “It’s the little things you do that show me your love.”

“Like what?” he says.

I ponder here a moment, bathed in a shroud of reverence. “When you clip a few miniature carnations from the backyard and present them to me in a bud vase.” I smile as I recall the delicate peach blossoms that graced our window box several mornings in a row. “When you prepare a delicious salad for me each evening for dinner.”

He smiles also, seemingly pleased. We finish our walk, hand in hand, and return home to straighten the kitchen. Three decades never looked better.

Happy anniversary to my person.