Proposal Number Six
maybe we're both addicted
On our first date, in 1993, in the thick of a Tōkyō crowd, Hiro clamped onto the hem of my jacket and said, “I don’t want to lose you.”
We debate whether he meant that as a wedding proposal, but the implication — that he never wanted to lose me — echoed in my heart’s ears. I plunged into love that very moment.
His second proposal arrived at the breakfast table, the morning after our second date (in my apartment). The words he spoke, “your miso soup is better than my mom’s,” rang of tradition — a common twentieth-century marriage proposal was “I want to have your miso soup every day for the rest of my life.”
The third proposal slipped from my lips one night in January of 1996. We had flown to Phuket, our first international destination as a couple, and as we floated past Patong Bay, our flip flops an inch or two above the sidewalk after a delicious dinner, the combination of glittering moonlight and the warmth of his hand in mine, loosed the dream: “I want to marry you!”
Our move from Washington State to British Columbia in 2006 prompted the official proposal. With the hope that we would soon have the money to apply for permanent residency in Canada, Hiro agreed that we could marry when that was finalized. We told a few friends, and Kat and Ben drove up to celebrate with us.
The permanent residency dream transformed into a Zeno’s paradox, ever closer but just beyond our grasp, until 2013, when Prime Minister Harper wrenched the work history conditions in favor of the oil sands in Alberta. You may not know this about me, but I am not a geological engineer.
But another proposal waited.
A month later, in June, the US Supreme Court rejected most of the Defense of Marriage Act. The story on NPR made it clear: I could at last sponsor Hiro for a green card. I ran to Hiro’s office at the opposite end of the house and abandoned all formality. “We’re getting married.”
Ten days later, we stood before a commissioner of marriage, two witnesses, their spouses in tow, and were wed. The medications I took to treat my misdiagnosed anxiety, however, kept that day’s happiness at arm’s length. I wear Mona Lisa’s smile in the photos, bobbing just above emotional numbness.
Tonight, as we celebrate a friend’s birthday, Hiro whispers into my ear: “Do you know what we need to get married in Washington State?”
“We’re already married.” After three glasses of wine, we are under the influence; his cheeks flush scarlet when I glance his way, but his gaze is steadfast and sober.
“Hear me out.”
When I retire in 2030, we plan to return home to Japan. Assuming Japan finally embraces marriage equality, Hiro reasons that immigration eyebrows might skew askance at our Canadian marriage license. “Neither of us is Canadian.”
His logic lands. I wrench my phone from my pocket to look up the marriage license procedure for Washington.
I summarize. “We apply online. At the ceremony, the judge and two witnesses sign. And then we file the license at the Department of Records.”
Our conversation attracts attention, and one friend interjects: the birthday boy is a registered celebrant. The question arises, “When?”
Hiro blurts: “July 7th.” The same day we wed in BC. Makes sense. One fewer anniversary to remember.
I glance at my phone. “That’s a Tuesday.” Another friend volunteers to make the cake. We ask our host if we can gather at her wine bar. She agrees.
Elation lights my eyes. Hiro proposed once more, and this time, I’m already happy and thinking about the vows.
If you’ve read this, are local to the Seattle area, and have nothing better to do of a Tuesday night in July, you are welcome to join us in Renton for some cake and champagne. Just let me know so I can order enough for everyone!
I love this! Congratulations!
Beautiful love story ❤️🥰