The Woman of the Hour

Time, and its passing, are for some reason seen as indicative of profundity. That which lasts must perforce be more deep, our culture says. The classics of literature, by virtue of their continued currency, must stand above the mere fictions of today. The Sphinx, in enduring, professes a universality beyond modern monuments.

I know different.

Today marks two years since a girl of breathtaking heart and luxuriant soul arrived in a household I myself have known only a few months. Earlier this year, the three founders of our family celebrated a twelfth year together.

If the advancement of marks on a calendar betokens superiority, then clearly my time with the wonderful Ariel April Worthy must be the least of all cohabitations within this home.

But the truth is, no adequate empirical measure can be applied to the truest of loves. 

Even a single tick of the clock rivals whole ages, if that second's sweet clarion announces the furtherance of what I feel for my lush and golden-haired nonpareil.

This is the face of she who granted me a world of perfection:

In all the life-span of this universe, no interval can exist to bestow a grander validation of our inextricable hearts than is already known to me with even a millisecond's contemplation of what I feel, upon one glance into her eyes.

The happiest of anniversaries to you, dear Ariel.