Day 11: so you will always know

There's a note tucked in the bottom of the glove compartment in Rich's truck. It's shoved beneath old insurance cards and receipts, registration forms and wrappers. Some days, like today, when I'm feeling just a little bit lonely, I pull it out and read it again. I wrote this note to my husband on our Wedding Day. If you open the small envelope, smudged with well-worn creases, you can read what I wanted him to know.

Dear Richard,

On the morning of our wedding, 2 hours before I take your name, I'm sitting in the breath of silence between what was and what will be.

And I want to tell you that I love you. I want to write it in a place that cannot be forgotten so that years from now, when our whispers have been silenced, your heart will remember that this heart belongs to you. Today I say that your dreams are my dreams. I look not to find my own identity, but to carve out a life for you and I. I will fight for you and take care of you. And when you're hurting, I'll take half, so that together we make it through. I promise to be faithful to you, for all times. I now belong to you and no other...

And the letter continues, in the way that romantic letters do, promising everything despite all manner of circumstances. I reread the letter, even though I've memorized its better lines. I reread it because I want to feel what I felt on that morning. I want remember, in ink on page, what it was like to feel so much for him that metaphors weren't enough.

And now that I remember, I can go back to washing the dishes. I can fold another load of laundry on my day off, even if all of it ends up being his clothes. I know that love is in the details, in clean towels and a freshly made bed. I know this, but I never want to forget why.