"Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you. Then, it will be a really good day." Louie Schwartzberg
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A Love Letter

posted by Susan Dominikovich on , ,

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When you walked through the door tonight, my heart skipped a beat.

I had that moment, that expression of disbelief that I used to have in our early days.  I would look across a room at you and say to myself, "Oh my goodness...he is mine!"  He is actually mine!  

Even after 17+ years, he is mine.

You were only gone 36 hours but it was long enough.  Long enough for me to start checking my watch every three minutes.  Long enough for me to need to make sure that the sound was on my phone in case you had texted and I had missed it.  Long enough.

We were fine while you were away.  In fact, more than fine.  The kidios all stepped up and filled the gap so that in many ways it was fun.  I didn't have to worry about breakfasts, afternoon teas or homework:  they did it all.  They even helped unpack the groceries that arrived this afternoon.  I remember when you used to go away and the kidios were so little and so dependent and I dreaded every long lonely minute that seemed to go on forever.  Actually, I don't remember much of those frightful days at all.  

It was such a lovely evening tonight, in a moment of inspiration I asked our Sam to set up the outdoor fireplace for us, so that when you got home we could sit together.  Share a glass of wine together.  Listen to the roar of the fire, the occasional squawk of the pukeko and the constant murmuring of the stream down below us.  Catch up on the last 36 hours together.  I listened as you regaled me with tales of your runners and the rugby team who competed gallantly but unsuccessfully against Auckland Grammar.  You listened while I exuberantly told you about my wonderful day teaching at my favourite school and about how cute it was that our Abby told me she could read the word "refrigelator...which means fridge of course."  And we looked at each other.  

We just looked.  

More of those "he is mine" moments.  Where my heart leaped into my throat and I marvelled at the fact that you are mine and I am yours and I so do not deserve you but here you are.  

I know you were quite sad on Mother's Day.  It had been a crazy week with both of us working and we had visitors for lunch and you felt bad that you couldn't focus on me, attend to my gift-loving needs.  And I kissed you and said, "I am so happy, I need for nothing."  I truly meant it.  My kidios gave me so much love and beautiful poetry and hugs and kisses and specialness.  I didn't need extra effort from you.  You've already done it all.  You are my hero.

We are surrounded by those who strive to be a hero.  To be seen as a hero.  For some reason that seems to be what a lot of men are about these days.  But not you. You do not try.  You are.  You just are.

You are a hero because even though the house is a mess on your return, you love me and ask how it's been for me.

You are a hero because when you got home tonight in time to kiss our kidios good-night, their faces lit up and their eyes filled with the magic only daddy can bring.

You are a hero because even though you cannot share it and it exists beyond you, you encourage me to be involved in music, my passion and delight.  

You are a hero because you love my writing and make sure I know when I've missed a day because I need to keep posting.

You are a hero because you let me wrap myself around you all night long, knowing that some part of my body needs to be touching yours.  Oh how I missed you last night.

You are a hero because you work tirelessly and oftentimes thanklessly so that I can have the life of my dreams: working sometimes, writing, playing, creating and being with my people.

You are a hero because you read to our children the books of my soul while I fall asleep on the rocker to the soothing sound of your beautiful voice, recognising the essence and life-giving force of great literature, my first passion.  One day you will read to them Frankenstein and Persuasion and I promise, I will not fall asleep.

You are a hero because you love Les Miserables too, and because you cried in the theatre almost as much as I did, as I held your hand so tightly our knuckles turned white together.


You are a hero because you forgave me when I screwed up.  

You are a hero.

When you walked through the door tonight, my heart skipped a beat.  

It reminded me of those days so long ago, walking slowly to the letter box from my parents' house so that we had an excuse to be alone together, holding hands.  The touch of your hand against mine meant so much.  It meant "he is mine."  He loves me and he is mine.

You love me and I am yours.

You are a hero.

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