I’m sitting here in my white polka dot dress
blowing pink bubble gum, sunny window,
a paper doily as my mouse pad courtesy
of my first grader and I’m thinking…
Of everything I know of love, of what shall I write?
Perhaps I should first confess that
I am a realistic romantic;
or maybe a romantic realist.
Yes, I’m more of a romantic realist says
my husband who just walked in the door
in the middle of the day to surprise me.
Good thing I like surprises-
like a life filled with 1000 amazing
kindnesses spread out across an
entire year like the tail of a kite
sailing through the sweep of sky
no matter the weather.
Better than a husband who
tries to make penance on Valentine’s Day
for a year of nothing with a contrived gift
of scentless red roses, cheap chocolate,
and lame lyrics on a store bought card.
As I’ve said, if my husband tried this,
he’d be out on his ear and I’m not kidding.
Don’t let the white polka dot dress or
the bubble gum fool you. I have zero
tolerance for pseudo romance.
I am quite taken with real love
however, like my husband who would
daily walk a steep uphill mile in pouring
rain after work and school for three
years so I could have the car.
And since I was expecting a baby,
instead of insisting on dinner,
he’d pull the rocking chair into
the kitchen, prop my feet on the glider,
cut and arrange fruit on a plate to look
like a starburst, and ask me about my
day while he made dinner. For months.
Years, come to think of it.
And once the baby came, he got up
at night, brought her to me, every
single time, every single baby.
And he never kept score.
I’m just getting started but he’s
standing there looking gorgeous
in his dark gray suit and tie,
his tender eyes entreating me to
finish this post so he can whisk
me away to an unknown place.
I’m all yours, my darling Hugh,
and oh, how I love you!