Wherein I write my husband's love poem to myself.

My husband posted a very romantic message for me on Facebook today, in honor of our third wedding anniversary, and after three years, my response to his romantic gestures is the same as it has always been: Who, me? For real?

I would have expected him to say something more like this:

To my wife on our third anniversary

Beloved, for three years you have sat on the couch

and eaten Cheez-Its. You have told one thousand

"Your Mom" jokes and fallen asleep during all

my favorite movies. Lovingly you've asked me to take 

the dog out when it is too late, or too cold, or raining.

You maintain the youthful innocence you held 

when we were first married, refusing to admit

the sobering reality that you would not end up

so mad if you only put your shoes in a place

where you could still find them two days later.

Imagine my puzzlement, having heard you use

the word "mofo," and having seen the tv turned to

"Toddlers and Tiaras," to see you the next minute

pulling Shakespeare's hardback face off the shelf,

rolling your eyes and calling my interests "banal."

Every day you scatter absurdity around our house

like love notes, or your socks. And I know already 

how delighted you will be by my writing this metaphor, 

because I have figured out much more than you realize:

I know that to you, a love note is just like a sock.

I know that for you, there is no truth except hyperbole
and no life except absurdity, and it's only you who wishes
you could give me something normal. So as long as
you keep asking "why do you love me?" I remain

content to have no answers that suit you.

 

 

 My dearest husband, thank you for loving me, and for loving me in such a perfect way. In honor of our anniversary, just for today, I won't ask you why.

 

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you, too.