Happiness

In 2003, we decided to have a diary of sorts -- a small hard-bound notebook where we would write our letters to each other, and pass it between the two of us.  It's a brilliant idea -- a handy way of archiving letters and keeping memories.

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Six years later, in a garden somewhere in Tagaytay, we were having our dessert at a candlelit table littered with rose petals.  The night was silent except for the soft sound of the nearby fountain and the gentle breeze against the trees.  The air smelled of flowers.

"Oh, I almost forgot," I said with a grin as I reached into my bag, looking for something.  "Before we go home, I have something for you. Remember this?"

It was the diary.  "Happiness," it said on the cover, as if it were a small children's book.  Beneath the "title", a sweater-wearing mouse was kissing the cheek of another as he gave her a sunflower.  They had an elderly... glow on them -- the way an old couple would hold hands and smile like there's nothing else they would rather be doing.

I then told her that I wrote a new entry and wanted her to read it, but then between my clumsy handwriting and the flickering dim light of the candles, I said she wouldn't be able to understand a word of it.  So I read it aloud to her instead.

The letter began much like any another, saying how I've had a great time with her in that spa and resort,  and that that day ranked as one of the best days ever.  And then it started to get a little bit cheesier than usual, but still sincere.

As the letter neared its end, I went to her, bent down on one knee, brought out a diamond ring, and spoke the last four words from the heart.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she said between sobs and tears of joy.