This morning I woke up in the Oklahoma farmhouse where my fiancé was practically raised by his grandparents.

There’s a ceiling fan over the bed in the room with blue walls that used to be his. Hot black coffee on the counter. Wind chimes, bible verses, knickknacks everywhere. A sign that says “God & Country,” another that says “God Bless America,” and a sticker on the front door that says National Rifle Association. There was an uncle telling military stories about the time he woke up on a beach in the Mediterranean with no clothes on – “thank you for your service,” I told him. A cousin with a sleave tattoo featuring an anatomically exaggerated, leather clad catwoman a whip in one hand. Harley-Davidson branding everywhere. There was a motorcycle on the gravel road on the way up to the house. An old black and white television program was playing in the living room. We stood for a while on the porch, talking, greeting family. They comment on the fact that Steve Rogers has grown a beard. “Are you into Marvel? I’m more of a DC fan,” says one of the cousins, the one with the tattoo. I tell him that my nickname for my partner is Steve Rogers. He gets a kick out of that and immediately understands why I chose that nickname.

Upon our arrival yesterday evening, an aunt offered us watermelon with salt.

This afternoon we visited his cousin and her partner, watched the Barbie movie, played Cards Against Humanity, and baked a quiche and some molasses cookies.

Over the next couple of days we will visit the cemeteries where his grandparents are buried. I study their images in an old photograph on the wall. In the photo, they are two best friends in love.

They look a lot like him.