This morning, before my husband left for work, he told me he’d loved me a long time. Our twenty-fifth anniversary is approaching, and while he doesn’t appear as a sentimental sort, he loves celebrating birthdays and anniversaries before they arrive. Or maybe it’s that quarter-century mark that makes this one seem special. I smiled, told him that I loved him too; we’re going to see some San Francisco Giants spring training games in March, but the actual date is closer to Valentine’s Day. Yet here it is, not even the end of January, and that day is already on his mind.
We’ve been parents nearly that long (our eldest joined us nine months and one week later, hee hee), but through the last twenty-five years, he’s been my best friend, my lover, my spouse. Well, twenty-five and a half; I’ll have known him for twenty-six years in June. But sometimes you just know it’s right, you know this is the ONE. We started living together within a few weeks of meeting, and by the end of summer, marriage was already on our minds. On occasion, the most right thing hits like a brick, like a wave pulling me out to sea.
All that waxing about writing and publishing reminded me how meaningful is this author gig. When my husband leaves for his day, mine begins; a shower, Grape Nuts and tea, sometimes a blog post, always music, then words. But when that guy comes home, my heart slips into an easier beat, and even if I’m still sitting at my computer, another scent wafts, not of drama or angst, but the most calming aromatic balm. My life is translated via countless fictional characters, but it’s lived with one man who somehow keeps me intact even if I’m traversing universes or aching psyches.
I love to write, God knows I do. He also knows the chap who for nearly the last twenty-five years has captured my corporeal being, my soul, my heart. Maybe our anniversary is still a few weeks away, but it means more than just one day can note. It’s the accumulation of days, nights, moments. All my stories are tinged with the bliss I’ve enjoyed for ages. Maybe that’s why love features so heavily within my work; for more than half my life I’ve been blessed with a continual shower. The affectionate fall-out has to land somewhere.