40

It’s a number with many historical references: The people of Israel wandered the desert for 40 years; its been 40 years since the “Fab Four’s” final concert; and 40 years ago, my husband made his appearance on this earth and muttered “Where’s my coffee?”

This week Ciervo celebrated his 40th birthday. Our first opportunity to commemorate something other than “first successful gas station visit” or “first day we got our TV to work”. But we celebrated the same way: by going out for ice cream.

We found a wonderful heladaria nearby. Its about a 40 minute (roundtrip) after-dinner stroll.

The number 40 is a big part of our lives: We drove 40 miles into the Andes last weekend, making it the furthest we’ve ventured out of Santiago without a translator along. It’s over 40 steps that we have to climb to get to our apartment since the elevator is broken, but less than 40 steps from the front of school to the first candy bar street vendor. My favorite cookie is about 40 calories, making my favorite 40 minute run just about right to burn off the few I ate for breakfast.

Rain fell on Noah for 40 days and 40 nights, and while it hasn’t been raining the whole time, we will soon be marking our 40th day in this soggy, skinny country. We have just over 40 weeks left.

I have been married to Ciervo for 40% of his life. During that time, he’s been a wonderful husband, friend and father. I love him dearly and look forward 40 more years of celebratory heladaria visits with him.

Sisma