We don’t talk about it much, but the last few years of our lives have been punctuated by our regular contacts with the US immigration system.  It’s mostly a lot of waiting – waiting to apply, waiting for the next date, waiting for a response, waiting for the next application.  It’s expensive and endlessly frustrating.  So we keep waiting until this whole thing is done.  Until that comes, though, there will be additional applications, more paperwork, more fees, and more waiting.

The strangest part, though, is the requirement to provide evidence of our marriage.  When I think of our marriage, I think of the days and nights we spend together – working together, living together.  I think of family vacations, of the countless days Kamran has spent with my family in the Northwoods or in Madison or the Caribbean or, well, anywhere.  Of engagements and weddings and funerals and holidays.  Of the four nights he spent sleeping on the window bench in the hospital with me.  Of Skype calls to Iran.  Of dinners and breakfasts and glasses of wine.  Of hopes and dreams and frustrations and little victories, and waiting.

We’ve been waiting 7 months for our most recent set of paperwork to go through, so that we can send in the next round as soon as possible.  Except, of course, that they need more proof.  One more bank statement, another set of tax returns.  I’ll find it, and send it, but since the last pile of bank statements and tax returns wasn’t enough, I’ll also send what I think of as proof.   The photos – the evidence of a life lived together.  Of time with family.  Of vacations and occasions and family.  Evidence of life, evidence of love.