The month of l.o.v.e.

The month of November is all about giving thanks and in December, it’s giving, or receiving, depending on your priorities.

In February, it’s all about the l.o.v.e.

I don’t write much any more, but not because I don‘t want to. Rather, it is an all-consuming passion that consumes passion. An emotional experience that depletes emotion. It wipes me out, but in the process it wipes out those thoughts hiding in the corners of my mind. You know, the ones that gnaw on you in the wee hours of the night or surface when you’re in the middle of something else and make you FORGET WHAT YOU WERE DOING. But it also helps me remember all that is good and perfect.
Cathartic. Cleansing. Uplifting. Inevitably, up come the tears and the computer screen gets fuzzy.

It’s a hard thing to do and try to do well, for me anyway. And it’s been a couple of years of hard things, so everything -- happy as well as sad -- gets shoved to the corners of the mind.

I try to explain that to Mickey. His biggest wish is that I write something to him, besides those few words that cover a card. That would be the biggest emotional upheaval and emotion-depleter of all.

But, because this is the month of l.o.v.e. And because he’ll be bowling on that special night of l.o.v.e. (i.e. Valentine’s Day) and I’ll be working, I’m going to give this a shot and hope one of us survives.

To my Mickey Charles, here are some things I l.o.v.e. about you:
First of all, that face. Or those eyes. Those dark eyes that light up when you’re pleased with something. Or think of something funny. Or something slightly naughty. Or of joy that brings you to the brink of tears.

Like when you see your granddaughter and your grandsons coming toward you. Or when talking to your sons. Or when your daughter texts you something … charming.
I l.o.v.e. sitting across from you in the silence of our home, silence broken by the tap-tap-tapping of your keyboard, and mine. Like now.

I l.o.v.e. listening to you tell stories, about what happened at work. Or on the track or ballfield decades or a few minutes ago.

I l.o.v.e. pulling weeds while you perch on the ladder, snipping away at the sleeping limbs of the fruitless mulberry, and both of us stopping everything to watch our favorite jets slice through the sky above us.

I l.o.v.e. bowling with you on our days off, turning around to see you watching me. With that l.o.o.k. in your dark brown eyes, that erases the almost-31 years we’ve been husband and wife. The same l.o.o.k. that greeted me when I walked down the aisle on Dad’s arm. That l.o.o.k. that looks past everything wrong I see in myself, and every wrong thing I’ve ever said or done in all those years.

I l.o.v.e. the way you play with the kids. When our sons and daughter were little … and our nieces and nephews … and the neighborhood children … you were their jungle gym. And now, when you sit down on the lawn or the floor, our grandchildren take over. That’s their signal that it’s time to p.l.a.y.

I l.o.v.e. the way you love your parents, those tender-teasing-boisterous conversations about O.U. football. Or how ‘bout those Chargers.

And I l.o.v.e. the son-in-law you are to my Mom, and the patience you had with my Dad. You were at nearly every doctor’s appointment with us in the first six months. You could make him laugh, and convinced him to stick with it when the waiting got tough. “Mary, let‘s get out of here,” he‘d say as we waited for his name to be called. And somehow you’d get him to stay.

I l.o.v.e. the friend you are to people of all walks and thoughts of life. That before the sun peeks through our east windows you are sitting in your chair, head bowed, praying for every person in your life.

You are patient. And kind. And long-suffering.

I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
Happy early V-Day, Mickey Charles!