he is a gift

I look back and back and see that the antique show was at the end of July.  I take the small antique African elephant and I look at it, my eyes shining.  He bought my birthday present literally two months ago.  I walk down the stairs and into the living room to put a log on the fire and as I do I run my hand along my new bike.  I pick up the bumper sticker and re read it and smile.  I have my new machete by my bed right next to my baseball bat.  This morning he made me waffles and then put Nutella and bananas on it.  And poured my coffee for me, black.  When he kisses me goodbye he says I hope you have a happy birthday.  I say you have already made it that way.  The gift of his time, his attention, his thoughtfulness is like a cup of hot tea on this cold and damp autumn day.

His chivalry is not done with a flourish and it is so unobtrusive that sometimes I forget it is happening.  He was raised well, I think as he holds open the door and then just looks at me, waiting.  He says, I am a man of few words.  And I love that.  I really do.  And now thinking of this gift bought for me so long ago and kept secret and hidden all this time.  A moment of clarity shines in my own eyes.  My friends tell me, he is a keeper.  My friends say he is a wonderful man and he is perfect for me.  He tells me, in the haze of Ommegang beer that I am one of the best women he has ever been with.  He tells me I am too insecure.  And I know it, but it is me.  Yes I am insecure sometimes, but deep deep down somewhere far beyond that insecurity, I know that I am good for him, just as he is good for me.  I tell him, we are perfect for each other in so many ways.  He wraps his arms around me and kisses me right between my eyes.

 

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