Sixty years is a long time.

Today my grandparents have been married for 60 years. I tried to find a picture of their wedding day on my computer, because I want to share how gorgeous they were (especially Grandpap; he was a hunk. Hope it's not creepy for me to say that). But alas, you'll have to settle for this snapshot of one of their many visits to see my brother and me in New York.

As someone who's only been married one year, I think sixty is a pretty amazing feat. I remember celebrating Nana Olga and Grandpap's 50th when I was in high school. I remember how the airline lost our luggage and my family and I had to outfit ourselves in JCPenney garb, I remember sneaking rum into my Cokes at the reception and doing the chicken dance, and I remember my sweet grandpa dancing with my grandmother, which I'm sure he wasn't too jazzed about doing but did anyway.

Now, ten years later, Granpap's dementia is so bad he doesn't even know that he's married to the woman who still prepares his dinner every night, makes sure he doesn't forget to put on his pajamas before he goes to bed, and loves him dearly. It's definitely a bittersweet milestone for Nana Olga, and I'm feeling for her today.