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Unsigned Love Letters

Unsigned Love Letters: To Love Is To Know – Part II

Dear Wife,


It’s 3:15 and I lay awake. Not surprising as I don’t sleep well without your snores. [You know you do.] You’d think I’d be used to it after all this time but sadly, no. It seems my subconsciousness, too, has no plan of curing itself of you. When did you anchor yourself so far in me? Redundant question, but then, you married a writer.


I wish I could tell people who fear nightmares there are things more frightening. Silent nights in empty hotel rooms. Mornings away from your grumpy before-chai face. Sunset without your logical indignation at the careless world…


I wonder what you’d say if you ever got your hands on one of these letters. [A sixtieth anniversary present? Promise to remind me.] No wait, that’s not true. I don’t wonder because I know what you’d say. You’d roll your eyes, scoff in distaste at the embarrassing mushiness of my words and return to mumbling over whatever mathematical or philosophical riddle has you preoccupied. Sentimentality isn’t your preferred mode of being and God knows, I couldn’t adore you more for it.


But the cherry tree outside my window is so full of flowers, its ready to burst and if you were here, I’d spin a tale – for your ears alone – of a brief burst of love as bright and rare as the pink in bloom. You’d sigh and pretend to be unmoved. However, your eyes would deepen as they left mine, and a barely perceptible smile would tug the top right corner of your mouth.


Years of living together has left little mystery to your unseen depths, and I never knew the adrenaline rush of knowing a person could be headier than falling in love. To know when I return home this Saturday, the groceries would be done but not my share of laundry, the car would be serviced and the lawn un-mowed, brings an insane amount of joy to my heart.


I know you find this illogical and I can hear your voice going “but who loves a solved puzzle?” I can no more justify it than I can the existence of atoms and yet both happen to be true. But maybe one day, I’ll write a book to explain just how and why I love you almost as much as I love knowing you.


Yours until we quarrel next [Because you hate forevers.]


P.S. I may have forgotten to pick the dry cleaning again. Forgive me?

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