“Do you know your blog is a love letter to me?” W asked me one day.
I had never really thought about it like that.
And then people started commenting about how hopelessly romantic my blog is. Amid swoons and sighs, they responded with awwws and how sweets.
Really? The Flannel Files? An Internet hub for love and other mushy stuff?
To borrow a line from Amy Poehler, really? The ultra-tough, uber-studly Flannel Files? That place where it’s cool for girls to talk about neckties and motorcycle boots, cleavage and butchdar?
It seems to hit a nerve every time. People are either searching for true love or in the middle of a love-filled relationship and realize how very lucky they are. At the end of the day when the sun is going down like a big red rubber dodgeball in the sky, we all want to be watching hand-in-hand with someone who makes our hearts beat like a bongo drum. Bong bong.
So, why all the talk about love, Middle-age Butch? What about baseball and beer? Tattoos? Mila Kunis? The upcoming Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?
W and I seem to have located the sweet spot of love.
Sometimes I wonder when it will all end. When we’ll have hit our limit, used up our magic.
We are soft and pink like this.
But we continue to grow together, and I think that’s the key. We are constantly growing, learning, stretching ourselves. Sometimes we are reaching for the same thing and sometimes not. Right now, we are pliable like fresh eggs of silly putty.
We seem new again.
I tell her in the morning that she has sexy morning hair.
She crinkles her nose.
I tell her in the evening that she has sexy night hair.
“No, I don’t,” she says. She bites her lip to keep from smiling.
She looks sexy in her new gray nightgown. And the pale blue one. And the black one.
I love you this much.
This is when I know I am in love.
Not again because I was in love last month and the month before that.
I start to wonder if this love is stronger or deeper or truer than the love I had for W in April or January or 2011 or 2009. Or has it been there all along — this deep, rich love that is new and old at the same time?
I’m not sure that it matters. Just that I feel it. And acknowledge it. And tell W that I love her. That I always have and always will.
I am reminded of this quote by Alice Walker from The Temple of My Familiar:
“Some people don’t understand that it is the nature of the eye to have seen forever, and the nature of the mind to recall anything that was ever known.”
What about the heart?
Open to love.
I imagine my heart an advent calendar covered in cardboard doors. They’ve been there forever. They were just waiting for the right person to come along and open them up.
Maybe W was right. This is a love letter to her.
It has been the whole time.