I scribble bits of conversation in a notebook or, mostly, on the notepad feature of my smartphone. The goal is to turn them into something meaningful, an essay or a poem. It is a noble goal that has yielded some work. Mostly, it is an inconsistent record of small moments in a big life. Mostly, the bits don’t make sense. Some are things you say, some are things you mean or things that I think I hear. Some are observations or words that seem temporarily or permanently poetic.

Here are some of the things listed right now:

You can’t hold hands with a wide receiver.

 American Made Trucks.

 Pluot. Heart-shaped bite.

 Boots.

There are other things too. All of my passwords (stupid), a list of recommended restaurants for the trip we took to San Diego, the address of a neighbor we think committed suicide and researched relentlessly, to no avail. Still.

Last night, I lay against you in our bed in our house discussing the politics of race in our mostly white state. The discussion followed another (mass?) shooting at a theater, though this time it doesn’t appear to be about that, or, at least not yet. No one will argue the placement of a flag for these women. But they are still dead. The possibility that one can die in a movie that we saw in a theater a week ago feels more personal than it is. Violence is everywhere and I’m afraid I’m losing the ability to appropriately react. It is important to me that we recognize the limitations of our whiteness and the proliferation of our privilege even if it is in our bed after a day of work. These are important conversations. This is modern romance.

To be married to you feels different than to not be married to you.

The pluot is a beautiful fruit, the purple skin somehow solid and translucent at once, the flesh fuchsia once broken, the bite an almost-perfect heart. I made note of it after eating a piece at my work computer, the juice dripping into the keyboard and then dripping again on my phone. How many people were eating pluots that day, those tiny, dripping hearts? Is it possible to feel connected to the world by a piece of purple fruit?

On our honeymoon, we stood on the grass at Dodger Stadium and it was as close as we will ever get to a holy experience. A post-marriage pilgrimage. You, in bright-eyed wonder recognizing a baseball writer from Twitter and then calling out to him. Me, snapping photographs of Andre Either’s discarded sunflower seed shells. Heaven.

Dodger second baseman Howie Kendrick has a hummingbird tattoo because his grandmother loved them because they’ve always been around because they make her feel still around. I know that this does not make us friends, but I have a hummingbird tattoo, too.

One of the best things about having a wedding is the opportunity it allows for the people who love us best to congregate together to champion our love. A happy spider web of people who are all, at least for an hour or two, connected.

I know that it is very bridal to say that our wedding was perfect but I also know that anything else would be a lie. Also, I am very bridal.

Some people told me that a hummingbird lingered behind us as we said our vows.

Before I walked down the aisle, I stood for a moment in the building where the reception was held and, although Nick the DJ and Robbie the bartender were there, it felt like I was alone, though not lonely. I cannot recall a time when I have been more overcome.

Something about you at the front of the aisle and a trio of pink ballerinas at the back of it and a little boy in a pink bowtie somewhere in the middle, among all of those lovely people, launched my pluot heart into my throat and, like a crazy person, I cried frantically before stepping out into the sun.

Photo courtesy of the talented Mr. Shawn Raecke