Inside the Universe of Our Home
After a few black holes, meteoric blasts and seismic shifts, inside the universe of our home things are good. Like, really good.
Which one of us changed? I asked.
Yes, he said.
Today is his 46th birthday and a good occasion to ask: why do I love this man?
Because he invented the term "Snug-gurgle." Snuggling in bed while listening to coffee gurgling.
Because he invents stuff we read about later in Scientific American.
Because he's built his work schedule, his school schedule, his life schedule around our son's schedule so they can work on the business of growing up together.
Because neither of us can remember the title and subject of our fights a year, a week, a day later.
Because he super-glues wounds shut, is calm in a crisis, knows what to do when someone is sick or dying. Because he listens to me, knows me, sees me, hears me, respects, supports me. Because he helps me but refuses to rescue me, knowing I can do that for myself.
Because he's a walking encyclopedia of weird, useless, amazing information.
Because when his head turns on the street, it's to look at a car.
Because when I ask if I can write about him he says, "Don't leave a word out."
Because blood, sweat and tears is an understatement. Because he's given all of himself to the universe of our home, from the crawl space full of mud and shit to the open air rafters in the attic. From the pipes and ducts in the walls to the boards on the floor to the fence around the perimeter. From the heart of the heater and the AC to the paint on the walls to the music in our ears and the heartbeat of our home.
Because we both keep changing and somehow it's worked out that we are changing together.