They sat next to each other on the couch, their legs lightly touching. My dad looked at her as my mom recounted what he was wearing the first time she saw him. Linen pants that flared at the bottom, a Hawaiian shirt, and a head covered with a thick afro of brown locks. Mom said he looked like one of the best dressed guys in East Los Angeles.

You don't remember what I was wearing, my mom teased. To her surprise, my dad painted a 1974 picture of her with his words, complete with her long red hair, white bell bottoms, and nautical crop top. It was very risqué, my dad laughed. My mother denied it, but her flushed cheeks revealed the truth.

Yesterday my parents celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. All these years later, and they still talk about the moment they met, their undying love, and their potluck wedding in the basement of their church a few years later. My dad leaned over and kissed her when she talked about the best times (raising her kids), and when she talked about the worst times (my father shaving her head after her first round of chemotherapy).

My parents taught me love takes a myriad of forms. It's an amoeba of forgiveness, grace, humility, and hard work. It's saying I'm sorry when you don't want to, it's saying You're the most beautiful woman in the world after waging a six year war on cancer. It's the small things that makes love work after 38 years. I'm honored to have amazing role models and I hope my marital relationship is half as good as theirs 38 years from now…