Devin’s vows
Maya — I met you calling cadence I didn't want to hear, and somewhere between the fourth month and the first date I figured out the cadence was right and I was the one off the beat. I have been catching up ever since.
I promise to keep choosing curiosity over being right. When we disagree, I will ask one more question before I answer. I will assume you have seen something I haven't, because most of the time you have.
I promise to remember the lighthouse storm — the dark kitchen, the camping stove, the pasta that took an hour, you laughing at me for salting the water twice. That night taught me that the lights going out is not an emergency if you are the person across the counter.
I promise to love Cleo like she is our first kid, because she is.
I promise to hold the quiet for the people who would have been in the front row. They are here. We will carry them.
I promise to keep showing up — for the cadence call, for the long row, for you.
Maya’s vows
Devin — I spent four months convinced you couldn't hear me, and the truth was I wasn't listening either. The first thing you ever taught me was that being heard and being agreed with are not the same thing.
I promise to keep listening even when I am tired. Especially then. I will not confuse exhaustion for clarity. I will ask before I assume.
I promise to remember the lighthouse storm — you, calmly boiling water in the dark, salting the water twice while I laughed, handing me a bowl like the power had never gone out. That night I learned that you are the person I want with me when the lights fail. I am picking you again, on purpose, in the daylight.
I promise to love Cleo a little less than I love you. It will be close.
I promise to leave room — at the table, in the silence, in the toast tonight — for the people who would have walked us down. They are missed. They are not forgotten.
I promise to keep calling the cadence, gently, and to trust you to row.