"...has been written in mud and butter and barbeque sauce."
This was the beginning of the poem my husband gave me on Valentines Day.
You might be sick of Valentines by now. The holiday, full of its chocolatey, stuffed-bear and balloon cynicism draws to a close tonight, and I have a dispeptic belly-full of cheap jewelry ads and schmaltzy marriage proposal stories.
But the mystic in me finds it hard to hate a day that remembers how central love is to our existence. Remembers that all the world for love may die. [Ben Jonson] Love, in all of its iterations, is reason to exist. Ok - a bright pink stuffed bear has not nearly enough gravitas to make it real. I'd submit that a half-pound of dark chocolate sea salt caramels just might.
But love is real. Realer than anything else that drives us. Here is what I know, today, about love:
Love is the husband who calls his wife driving home from the city in the middle of the night, just to keep her awake over the miles.
Love is the husband who jumps up later that night to get a bowl for a feverish wife who feels like she's about to hurl.
Love is the husband who makes the kids heart-shaped waffles on Valentine's morning and lets his wife sleep until 8.10 when he absolutely-has-to-really-must-leave.
Love is the husband who posts a poem that he knows will break his wife's heart in a million (mostly good) ways as a gift, right out there for all of Facebook to see.
Love is the husband who leaves work after a quiet, miserable call from his sick wife. Leaves work, arrives home with laptop in hand and plops himself on the floor to build a marble maze with three cabin-feverish kids.
It wasn't your standard Valentine celebration at the Yellow House this year. But oh, it was filled with love! The kind of love that makes days, weeks and months into rich and full lives. Not happy perfect filled-with-glitter-and-champagne-and-swanky-dates lives, but lives filled with Quality.
Surely we can't hate a holiday that celebrates that.