Something Childish
There is something almost parental in the way he reaches for my hand if I walk just a little too far ahead of him.
One can see it in the way he reads me his favorite books and how he tucks me into bed before saying goodbye, leaving me the perfect blanket burrito.
It's there in how he makes me omelets on the few mornings that we get to wake up together.
Yes, there's something parental in the way he loves me.
But maybe there's something childish in the way I take a skip ahead just to make sure he's still uneasy.
Maybe it's revealed when I ask for just one more chapter three chapters later, and how I crawl into bed as soon as I see him reach for his watch.
Maybe there's something child-like in the way, after six years, I still haven't told him that I don't like eggs.
One can see it in the way he reads me his favorite books and how he tucks me into bed before saying goodbye, leaving me the perfect blanket burrito.
It's there in how he makes me omelets on the few mornings that we get to wake up together.
Yes, there's something parental in the way he loves me.
But maybe there's something childish in the way I take a skip ahead just to make sure he's still uneasy.
Maybe it's revealed when I ask for just one more chapter three chapters later, and how I crawl into bed as soon as I see him reach for his watch.
Maybe there's something child-like in the way, after six years, I still haven't told him that I don't like eggs.
♠ ♠ ♠
I wrote this several years ago, and the man I wrote it about recently married me. To me, this is the best kind of love.