A couple that is counting the days until they walk down the aisle are happy. Today's reason however has nothing to do with flowers, or silk, or registries. 

They are excited about their own bucket and laundry soap. 

After the wedding they will move into a darling second floor apartment, and the cleaning supplies are proof that they will be facing life together. Including scrubbing floors. 

The first place John and I lived in was a cockroach infested bungalow in Cassadaga, Florida. There were orange trees in the back yard, and a saloon around the corner complete with cowboy boots in the dress code. I am sure it is only a coincidence that thirty years later I again live in spitting distance of a bar. However all of my citrus comes from the store. Yet where we lived was merely the wrappings for the miracle of a shared home. 

The apartment that my son and his wife live in was recently flooded. I cringed to hear about three inches of water soaking their carpet, and very much wished I could show up with a bucket and soap. John and I have faced more drenched floors than I can, or want to, remember. And though it is neither logical nor expected, seeing my husband deal with those calamities brought up a flood of affection for him. He was my hero.

It seems likely that you too own a bucket and soap. But probably it did not occur to you to proclaim that particular fact as cause for celebration. Which suggests to me that it is not the possessions themselves that house our joy. It is our response to them. 

The number is thirty four. But who's counting?