“That’s the sweater you wore the night we got engaged,” he says.
“You’re right,” I say surprised that the camel-colored, wool-blend sweater is still in style (I think it is anyway) and even more surprised that he remembers I was wearing it on that special night more than eight years ago.
Then, with the arm that’s not holding our baby, he draws me to him and kisses me.
I don’t give him enough credit. I too often assume he doesn’t notice all the little things I do for him or our family. I wipe our bathroom counter and clean our sink. I step back to admire their gleam and wonder, “Does he even notice?”
I give my lashes a quick swipe of the mascara and run a brush through my hair before he comes home from work. I glance in the mirror and hope he still thinks I’m beautiful.
Sometimes, as a words-of-affirmation-Love-Language-kind-of-girl, I long for him to write long love letters, songs, or sonnets that profess his undying affection for me. That’s not likely to happen. He’s more of a show-don’t-tell-kind-of-guy. He shows me he loves me all of the time more with his life than with words. The way he treats me, the way he kisses me good-bye and greets me with a similar kiss when he returns home every day, the way he squeezes my hand after we’ve successfully diffused a titanic tantrum together, the fact that he remembers what I was wearing the moment he fell on one knee and asked me to marry him – these moments say what all the words in the world could never spell out so simply and beautifully. I cherish you. I honor you. I notice you. You’re beautiful. I love you, and I’m so glad I married you.