My husband has been my rock for the last six months or so – quietly there, doing what needs to be done, giving me space when I need it, and holding me close when I crave non-child-related human contact. He makes me laugh, sometimes even on my darkest days, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.
I struggle with how to tell him that. I’m not prone to declarations of undying love, not willing to say sappy things I don’t feel, and so this conversation we had tonight is pretty standard for our so-called “sweet nothings”:
Me: You know I tolerate the fuck out of you.
Him: I more than tolerate you – I actually love you.
Me: I love you too. More than you can imagine.
Him: Do you actually know what I can imagine?
Me: No, and I don’t want to. Fine, I love you less than you can imagine. Satisfied?
Him: Much better.
*From a favorite Edna St Vincent Millay poem:
Loving you less than life, a little less
Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall
Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess
I cannot swear I love you not at all.
For there is that about you in this light—
A yellow darkness, sinister of rain—
Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight
To dwell on you, and dwell on you again.
And I am made aware of many a week
I shall consume, remembering in what way
Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek,
And what divine absurdities you say:
Till all the world, and I, and surely you,
Will know I love you, whether or not I do.