I think you know, by now, my fondness for pictures and colors. You know, the ones I beg you to take as you wrinkle your nose and make a face only your mother could love (and you encourage our son to do the same)…
And, if I’m honest with myself, I love making things beautiful. Neat. Organized. Everything in a box. Toned in cool gray and blue hues.
But what I don’t tell you enough is how much I appreciate your ruggedness and the vibrant paints that you splash into my predictable minimalist piece.
I see everywhere the boxes upon boxes of roses, donut bouquets, and 5-Karat rings in those neat little squares. With a sepia filter, of course. But I don’t want this kind of perfectly posed, color-toned love.
We have what we have because of what we don’t have.
You have always been a man of few words. But because of the lack of long, drawn-out Instagram captions, the letters you leave for me and cards you always so carefully write for me are all the more cherished.
You are my reckless abandonment that I chase life with. You pull me out of the truck and into the woods barefoot, onto our next adventure with a single tent and some wet firewood.
You don’t come through my door with roses, but you come through my door with open arms and a shoulder to lay on as I chatter about how fast and slow time is passing simultaneously and the baby bounces on your knee. And I get a break, for however long, as I get to enjoy you babble with our son on the carpet.
You simply don’t fit. You were never made for a box. You are absolutely beyond that silly little box and it’s addicting to watch you blossom into the man and leader of the family you’ve become.
The romance you meet me with is unmatched. You harness my passions and push me toward my aspirations. You have built this family with me and always make sure I know how much I’m loved, even when I’m lost, confused, or simply overwhelmed.
And that, my love, is completely and exquisitely beyond a little gray box.
Thank you for helping me look beyond the surface and into your depths.