I married a Gal from Kalamazoo five years ago

Having an accent throws people, leaving them gawk at me as they ascertain my speech.
"What are you doing in Kalamazoo?" they say, the taste of a confusion cocktail with a splash of bile.
That drink suddenly rots teeth when they hear the sweet response of "I met a gal from Kalamazoo" and flash the golden band around my finger.

I like it here.  The people are nice and homely, keeping everyone as comfortable as they keep themselves, almost to extremes.

They are curious, making jokes about themselves and quoting films as old as time itself, while enamoured with stories about my home, of wildlife and of culture.

But every morning, I wake up and find my gorgeous wife, sleeping like an angel.

And I always breathe a sigh of relief.  That after five years, I am finally with her.  No more waiting to text her at 8pm.  No more digital kisses.  No more stressing out when I haven't gotten a message from her.

I can finally talk to her. I can touch her. I can kiss her. I can hold her.

I can love her.

For four years, we were apart.  All we wanted was to be together.  And we did it.  Thousands of dollars and close to twelve months, we did the process.  We filed the paperwork. I went through the exams.  I answered the questions.  We both stretched our patience to the very limit.

But I got here.

It was March, and Michigan was still colder than a witches teat.  The plane flew over Chicago in the middle of the day and I just saw homes covered in thin blankets of white snow, streets glistening in the light as the ice froze over and the dark slush piled up to the side.

It was winter like I had never seen it, and in the wrong time of year.

Our wedding was simple, something we both wanted. Family and friends down on the beach on St Paddy Day, something we will recreate one anniversary in Aus, if we're not elbow deep in alcohol already.

If there was one flaw that day, it was the cold.  Icebergs meandered along the beach as the wind pummelled us with what felt like Liquid Nitrogen.

But it all melted when I saw her.  I knew I loved her, but that moment was like I was back at that airport in 2010, seeing her beaming after eight months of wanting to meet, and seeing the exact same beam that made my heart skip a track.

We've had a rocky nine months.  Adjusting to everything, from paying for items at the store, to having a small dog, to avoiding faux pars in conversation.  I've been trying to take notes of how different things are from home, but it doesn't feel very different.  Sure, everyone drives on the wrong side; money is made of paper and is always green; And everyone will ask me or Jenny to translate.

But at its heart, this is home.  Jenny is my home.  And I am glad I am finally there.