Today, we’ve been married 16 years. And I love to take photos of us as the teenagers we were compared to the adults we’ve become. Photos of the wedding next to photos of the last mess dinner. Photos of us happy together then, and now. Good times then compared to good times now. But those photos tell such a small part of our story. I think it might be because, for maybe the 4th or 5th time in our marriage, you are home this year, but I find myself looking back this time without the rose-coloured glasses I like to put on when I reminisce. There are so many moments that the pictures don’t show. And I find myself a little nostalgic for the moments we didn’t photograph. Not because I would ever want to repeat them, but because they have made us who we are. Love is sometimes reunion photos and pictures of us laughing on the beach. But love was also 3 months after our marriage, when I was mad because I had given up and gotten a job at a bookstore instead of using my brand new college diploma, and you got on my case for not cleaning up something and I screamed so loud at you I lost my voice and couldn’t greet customers at work. Love was when you came home from your first combat deployment at 20 years old and within weeks we had a baby and moved homes and when your nightmares woke me up for the thousandth time I immaturely and out of pure exhaustion threatened to take the baby and go “home.” Marriage was also that time at 4am when the baby who had fallen asleep to the…