March 13, 2007
To mi amor, Marc:
Gracias, my little neck-sucking husband, for everything you do. I love the way you start to cry when you're in direct sunlight and have to run away, because it shows me how deeply you feel things. I cherish how you told me the reason you never show up in any of the mirrors in our house is because you decided my reflection is too pure to share space with anyone else's, so you made special mirrors that will only show me. It gets me trembly with affection when you make me garlic chicken even though you're allergic to it and have to go lie down for 14 hours afterward with nothing but a raw piece of prime rib for company.
But, sweet tiny Marc, it touches me the most when you make me things with your own two hands. At first it was confusing when I walked into the basement and saw you shredding a moldy old rug with your teeth and screaming, "Who stole my stash of blood," but when you explained that I'd misheard and that you were actually saying, "Yippee, my wife will be so happy that I have made her this shawl for her next concert! Hooray! And if she doesn't wear it, my heart will turn to mud," it all made sense to me. You are so thoughtful, amor. You always care. And so even though this smells a little bit like something died in it a year ago, I am wearing it because that perfume of decay will always remind me of you. Te adoro!"