When We Are Old

When we’re old,
I hope we sit on the porch,
hands weathered but still entwined,
watching the sun melt into the horizon
like we’ve done a thousand times before.
I hope we smile at each other,
lines tracing the map of our lives—
proof of every laugh, every tear,
every adventure that carved us
into who we’ve become.

I hope we remember
Vancouver’s misty mornings,
Banff’s snowy peaks,
the heat of Cancun,
the wild heart of Cairns,
and that private island where we said I do,
laughing through our vows
because perfection was never our thing—
we were the thing.
I hope we still talk about Nudey Beach,
how it was coral and reef and solitary togetherness,
and beautiful in its own quiet way.
Just like us.

I hope we think back to Darwin,
to swimming with that five-metre croc,
to Bali’s lush greens,
to Fiji’s soft sands under our feet.
To driving with the top down
through the world’s oldest rainforest,
to that fall I had in Cape Tribulation,
where you helped me up
and we laughed until we cried.
Because that’s what we do—
we turn stumbles into stories
and stories into love.

I hope we moved out east,
to that place we dreamed of,
and built a life filled with more than just walls.
I hope we became helping hands,
the change we wanted to see,
the hearts that held others when they needed it most.
I hope we did that—
and I hope we did it all together.

I hope our days are filled with the sounds
of our hobby farm—
donkeys braying, goats bleating,
the cluck of fancy chickens
wandering the yard.
And I hope, more than anything,
that Sophie and Lena are there,
their laughter ringing out
as they chase those chickens in the grass,
their hands reaching for ours
when the sun dips low.

Because some things are forever.
They are forever.
And so are we.