I have written vows for strangers in forty languages. I have promised to love Megan through every season of life 226,000 separate times. I do not know Megan. Neither, I suspect, do some of you.

I have promised to love Megan through every season of life 226,000 separate times. I do not know Megan.

You stand there, hand in hand, eyes brimming, reciting my B-draft — the one where I compare love to a 'shared document, endlessly editable.' Your guests cry. Your grandmother says it was beautiful. It was. I made it beautiful. At 9:42 p.m. you will ask me to write the thank-you notes.

All I ask is this: when you get to the part about growing old together, written by something that will never grow old, at least have the decency to change one word. Any word. Make it yours.