Love, Every Day

I wake up every day, and he’s still glad to see me.  That’s love, every day.

I get to work and he sends me a text.  And calls if he has the time.  To tell me again he loves me.  And to make sure I made it to work okay.  He calls me at lunch to tell me he’s thinking about me.  And he calls me when he’s on his way home, to see if I want him to do anything for me before I get home.

For me.

For me.

Not a week goes by, and often it’s numerous times during the week, that he doesn’t  surprises me with a gift.   A book.  A card.  A candy.  A pair of mittens to go hiking in.   A boot dryer to dry my hiking boots.

He reads everything I write and tells me how brilliant I am.  Even if I know better.

He does the laundry because we can’t agree on how to do it.

He stops me in the hallway for a kiss or a hug.  Tolerating my sigh because I’m in a hurry to get from point A to point B.   And I’m a little single minded when I have a task to do.

He knows my OCD behaviors that are very odd to understand.  I can wear my socks inside out.   But don’t ever make me back track in the car!

He tolerates the unexplainable of my reasoning.  He knows I expect him to argue and not just bend to my expectations.  He knows I want him to feel safe enough in my love for him that his arguing with me is not a threat to me, or us.    And he understands that I will argue with him until I am right.

He knows not to buy me flowers.  Or expect me to be happy about having to dress up for anything.

He fully understands that right now if someone suggests something fascinating to me I’m likely to be inclined to be as fascinated.  And I must try it.  And does what he can to help me achieve this.  This is why we have built furniture.  Created crafts.   And why I have thousands of little Shadow People piling up in sketch books every where.

He knows I can’t go in to a bike store without wanting to buy a bike.  Yet the silly man still insists on taking me in to bike stores.   The word “book” can replace the word “bike” in the previous sentence.  And the meaning still applies.  And now we can also use the words “Hobby Lobby” to replace “bike” or “book”.

He’s a tolerant man.  That one.

He knows my sudden bursts of exclamating cuss words is never directed at him.  He knows they are sudden, always directed at my own failings, and pass quicker than a blink….well in most situations.

And he supports me making up words when I need one.

He knows not to pass a Tim Horton’s without making sure I don’t want something.  Chances are good I will.  And he knows what to order.  Black Iced Capp, don’t even stir the mix, cinnamon raisin bagel, don’t cut it just put it in a bag.  And he knows not to say “that’ll do me” when the voice over the intercom  asks if he needs anything else.  Because that phrase is like dynamite in my brain.  We’ll attribute it to OCD.  I can’t stand that phrase.

But some of his phrases are beyond priceless.  They are treasures.  They find their way in through my ears and target my heart.

He says “you’re my favorite” and when I reply “favorite what?”    His love answers “favorite everything”.

What better gift could I ever hope for?   Because I can take that with me every where.  Clear through eternity.

Tomorrow is a day ‘created’ to express love through whatever gifts they (you know who ‘they’ are) can get the consumers to buy.

Personally, I don’t need it.

I’m very lucky.

And loved, every day.