Thread by @bradmeltzer

THREAD ON WHAT YOU DON’T SEE:
Here’s the bullshitiness of social media — and here’s what you can’t see in this photo from our Hawaiian recommitment ceremony:

As I’m pouring my heart out to my wife, in the midst of the new vows that I wrote just for her, a group of Hawaiian high schoolers start blasting music, jumping off the rocks/cliff across from us.

Our friend Jessica pantomimes for them to please turn the music down. They’re in high school. Of course that only makes them turn it up. Naturally, we’re now all laughing—Cori, our kids, all of us—especially as Jessica, exasperated, screams at the top of her lungs, mid-ceremony,

“Dude, they’re getting MARRIED!” It was uncontrollable madness, the perfect metaphor for the gorgeous mayhem that is married life. Best of all, the highschoolers turn it down and switch to a beautiful Hawaiian song, our sudden serenade.

Anyway, that’s the real truth behind this “perfect” moment. 

And just so you have it, here are the vows I wrote for her. Love you, C.

Brad’s Vows
One of my only—truly only—regrets from our beautiful wedding is that I didn’t write my vows because no one else’s words will ever be able to explain the depth of my love for you. No one else’s words are good enough for you.

I married you under a chuppah where I was sweating so badly, your father reached into his pocket to pull out a hankie so I could wipe the physical sweat from my forehead. I had no idea what I was getting into that day.

And now, as I look back…
I remember date 1.
I remember year 1.
I remember kid 1.
I remember year 10.
I remember kid 2.
I remember kid 3.
I remember all we lost,
And I remember all we fought to gain.

I remember year 15.
I remember year 20.
I remember that girl in the cheerleading outfit.
I remember that same girl who unzipped her sleeve and gave it to me.
I remember sitting on the Capri, waiting to ask you to prom.

remember that night eating Chinese food on that roof.
I remember that Hawaiian honeymoon hotel room, the biggest room I thought we’d ever see.
I remember pyramids in Egypt.
I remember the top of the Eiffel Tower.
I remember Machu Picchu.

I remember being right here, on this island as newlyweds.
I remember fighting in a parking lot.
I remember crying in a hospital.
I remember eating at the White House.
I remember dancing in a birthing room.
I remember selling Batman shirts.

I remember when we could only afford mozzarella sticks at @TGIFridays.
I remember buying your diamond ring.
I remember it all—and I’m so utterly mad for you, given the chance, I want even more time together.
The best part of each adventure was us—you and I—together.

I remember year 25—and 26.
I remember that look in your eyes when you look at me.

It took me a long time to figure out the real core of why I loved you. The obvious is obvious. You are the light I turn to. You make me more kind, more calm, the better version of myself. You make me who I want to be—and that’s a choice every day.

But the deeper pull you have on me—and I’ve told you this: As a writer, there’s real control in a story. I tell every character what to do and they listen. Even in real life, I make judgments so quickly, especially about others, keying into their stories and

doing my best to figure them out. But you, my love, are the one story I have never been able to predict. Or control. The one story that feels utterly unknown, and therefore the most fascinating and thrilling to me.

You are the story I can’t possibly write.

I remember everything—and I’m here today to say, whatever else God brings us, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live, I vow to be standing there and fighting for you, Cori Flam.