Catherine spent almost a month planning our small wedding.
We invited fifty of our family and friends, to witness our wedding in the gardens of my estate.
She planned the meal, invitations, and practically everything else I never would have thought of.
I was, however, the one to insist we write our own vows. Since figuring out that I loved her, I had been writing and rewriting the words I would say when we finally wed.
Of course at the time they were just aspects of my imaginings and prayer – if you ask me though, I think believing it was going to happen might have helped.
Why else would someone like her fall in love with someone like me.
My best man – Fergus, had planned my bachelor night, stealing me away from my house at midnight and taking me straight to a bar for drinks.
We drunk much more than is proper until we had finally had enough, we sat, and the boys looked at me before one asked.
“Tell us, how did you make her fall in love with you?”
They sounded so shocked, and if I wasn’t as drunk as I was, I probably would have been insulted.
And that’s when I began telling them of my Catherine, and how I fell in love with her.
I told them how I fell in love with her in those sweet, slow moments – moments when she smiled and laughed with me, but also in those stolen moments when I would kiss her palm and she would blush.
I could only tell them of how I fell for her, for I knew not how she fell for me.
I would harbor a guess however, that she fell for me the same way. In the small moments, and then, in all the moments in-between.