My love: you know who you are.

In just a few days, it will be Valentine’s Day. Yesterday, as you were driving and we listened to the radio over the steady hum of your old Toyota Tacoma, the broadcaster told a lie. I looked over at you and wondered if you’d heard it too—how those words might crack open a scabbed wound—because the evening before, I had spoken words with sharp edges.

I told you that the early gift you gave me wasn’t really a gift at all but rather a checklist household item.

The man on the radio pandered to the masses, telling them that a gift on February 14th was necessary to commemorate love. You heard this, I think, and I felt the searing sting of what I’d said—like alcohol poured on raw flesh.

In the simplest of words, I am sorry.

Love is a mess, isn’t it?

Some days, the moments we share feel as nourishing as the first rays of sun on a crisp spring morning—the silent time we spend together, the laughter bubbling from our bellies, the intertwining of our fingers when they’re near. We move through each other as light dances through the leaves. 

Golden hour.

Other days are tough. We aren’t in sync: one of us is tired or stressed or distracted, and the other can’t figure out the formula. How can I help you? You can’t. What can I say? Nothing—not right now. 

But maybe tomorrow.

If I were to look back on our ten years of getting to know each other, I’d share this one reflection: marriage is like a job that is never done. And love—love is like…

Like…

Like the wind—it’s hard to define, but you can feel it in the goosebumps on your skin or the rustle of all that is neat and proper. You know it’s there.

This morning, I drove your truck along the H3, a winding mountain pass flanked by lush green mountains, their bare faces carved into impossible beauty by the soft and harsh ways of the windward side. How lucky we are to still be in awe of our home. 

My hand hung out the window, the wind rushing between my outstretched fingers. When I pulled it back into the cab, my palm was softened with dew.

Is it strange that I thought of you—the warmth of our shared breath, the same soft dew on my skin, the way we’ve lifted each other onto our shoulders, as high as the peaks of that mountain pass, so we could see farther, stand taller, and be better?

How lucky I am to still be in awe of my home — anywhere with you.

Love with you is…

The breeze blowing between my fingers and tousling my hair.

The rain falling on my face, both masking and washing away my tears. 

The birdsong following me through the forest.

The scattered speckles of evening sunlight dancing at my feet.

The man on the radio lied to us, but part of me wanted to hear his falsehoods as validation. I cling to the (paraphrased) words of Maya Angelou in moments like these: When you know better, you do better. 

Maybe love is a big, gorgeous, and terrifying mess—impossible to fully understand or bring to order. Still, we can try, learn, and strive to be better. So, please accept this wisp of words as my clumsy gift to you:

The greatest gift I was ever given was the chance to cross paths with you. Every day is another opportunity to be a student of the subject of You and Me, and, well, I hope I never stop learning.