A year ago I saw you, Guemes Island. I got on your little ferry in a borrowed blue truck and wondered why I’d never noticed you before. All the times I’d driven through Anacortes, down 12th Street and peered north through the trees to the water, and stood on the deck of the Washington State Ferry I’d never once thought, “hmm, what’s that island with all those houses over there?” Nevertheless, I found you. July, 2013, I found you. For a year I haven’t been able to stay away from you. Every chance I got in the last year I was on your beach, running through your trees, admiring at your sunsets. I’ve become this person that I really like with you. You make me smile, multiple times a day, and that’s so many more times than anything else makes me smile. It’s like sometimes when I’m with you I can’t even sleep because you’re so gorgeous and I just want to look at you. I’ve been lucky enough to be living with you for the last six months, and there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.
I love you.
I love you in the summer, which is not hard to love. You’re glorious. Everyday. You look so damned good. You give me so much in the summer – crabs, in a good way; days that don’t end; warm afternoons to laze about on the beach. I love you in the fall when you flash your fancy colors and remind me that I like chilly, foggy days and sweaters and scarves and beanies and morning mist. I even love you in the winter, when it’s not easy to love you. You’re mean in the winter. You don’t play fair. You throw rain in my face, sometimes sideways. You hide the sun from me for days on end. But I love you because it’s so fun to light a fire and snuggle with you and read books and cook comfort food and get a little bit soft and play board games and drink lots of red wine and dark beer. I love you in the spring, when you’re waking up from your nice long winter sleep, and you’re eyes get all watery and moist, and you push the clouds out of the way every so often so we both get a little sun on our faces, and bright colors start appearing and you help the little buds push their way through the soil. We’ve had some incredibly awesome, mind-blowing, I-can’t-believe-I-get-to-live-here days together. But then we’ve also had some getmethefuckoffthisisland days together, too. So yes, even when you’re all pissy, sometimes literally, I am still crazy about you, Guemes. I love you.
I love you so much that when I stop to recognize that we’re together my heart beats faster. My mouth goes a little dry. I get flushed. I feel like I’m going to vomit and I have to pee. But nevertheless, I love you, and I want to explore every inch of your green forests and hills and valleys and rocky beaches. I want to know you like the back of my hand. I want to share our souls with each other.
It’s terrifying and exciting to ask you this, Guemes Island, so I think that means that I should. In the wise words of Eleanor Roosevelt, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” So here goes, Will you marry me? Will you love me forever and ever and have amazing adventures with me? Will you bring out the best in me and I can bring out the best in you? Can we handle each other’s highs and lows? Can we grow old together and give each other hugs every day until the day we die?
Yes? Yes?! You will? We can?! YES! Oh I love you. I love you. I Love You. Thank you Guemes Island, because I’m here to stay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be an islander and have an address here, permanently. You’ve got me. I’m yours. You are everything to me and I want us to be happy ever after.