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I’m always hit by the crushing realization of how much I love him in the most unexpected moments. It’s there – in the smallest things.
Like how there’s love in the way he hooks his pinky timidly around mine as we’re walking down the streets, swinging our hands in rhythm to our steps. He doesn’t look at me at first – instead, he pulls his scarf (my scarf) up to his nose, but the blush on his cheeks and the shy smile don’t go unnoticed. It’s love in his eyes when he peeks at me moments later, when he thinks I’m not looking, almost as if wondering if I really exist.
Little does he know that I am the lucky one.
And it’s when he says “we” when we’re grocery shopping together after a long day, thighs sore from exertion and backs hunched from a long day out. “Do we need more? Do we have this at home?” And I can’t help but smile at myself, thinking of how it’s in the smallest of words is that I’m reminded of what we have is real.
It’s when he links his arm on mine when we’re walking back home, sharing an umbrella, using that as excuse – as if he really needed one – to stay close to me, the warmth of his body on mine, and how he laughs when I pout as he steps out.
I don’t ever want him to leave.
It’s when he hugs me tight and I am reminded once again about the perfect spot on his forehead that was made to be kissed, and make sure to kiss him there as I murmur gentle words about our love.
There is a softness to him I cannot hope to put in words.
It’s his cheeks – how they bloom into color, so beautifully dusted with pink when I compliment him. It’s his hands as he reaches to touch my own and bring it to his lips, following a ritual I know by heart – kissing first our ring, then my knuckles, the palm of my hand, then my pulse, looking at me through his long dark eyelashes with a smile speaking of a love too great to put into words.
It’s his smile, that not always comes from his heart, but when it does I can feel it in my soul. His happiness flows through me as I watch his smile mirrored on mine, and I learn that words are not needed to speak of fondness.
Words fail us. They cannot make justice of what we feel for one another.
It’s when he sees me dancing with our dog in my arms and shakes his head gently, but joins us in that music-less dance in our living room that soon becomes just the two of us, holding me close and cradling my head on his hand.
It’s when he does small things that remind me of how much we care about each other, like giving me the most beautiful pancake of the batch on purpose, or saving the last cookies in the bag for me when I’m not home.
It’s in the intimacy we share, the comfort of being just himself and no one else. When he sings in the shower or talks to himself when he knows I’m home, and when he dances in his pajamas when he thinks I’m not looking, doing chores while humming a song from his childhood.
It’s in his morning grumpiness when he pads into the kitchen and plasters himself against my back like a limpet to a rock, making noises about me not waking him up while wrapping his arms around my chest. It’s in the sparkle in his eyes after a mug of coffee, when he blinks the world back in focus and finds me there with him and smiles.
It’s when I know he’s comfortable enough to speak about his insecurities without worrying about what I’ll think about them, opens up and asks me for reassurance. It’s in the darkness of our bedroom when he confesses to me that he thinks he’s not enough – not good enough, not talented enough, not trying hard enough – and when he tears up, hiding his face in my chest, and I try to kiss his tears and worries away.
There is peace when I wake up on a silent morning. The pale sunlight creeping through the sheer curtains bathing our bedroom, bathing his dormant shape beside me, fast asleep. I take that sight in, thinking about how a year ago I would have deemed something like this unlikely.
It’s real. It’s here. It’s him.
And without noticing, my hand is on his hair, fingers gently combing through his soft hair, and he stirs softly in his sleep, warm and soft and real. His sleepy eyes gaze back at me with something akin to reverence, as if he’s thinking the same thing, gently cupping my cheek in his hand.
It’s there. We share a silent knowledge that moments like these are the ones we carry with us forever, treasured memories of unspeakable intimacy that even when we are old and gray, with wrinkles from all the times we’ve smiled together, will be remembered as dearly as it was in that same morning.