February 14, 2022
Nothing says “I love you” more than driving three hours to pick up my bass from the repair shop. That’s right—we didn’t spend the day together, I didn’t buy flowers or candy, we didn’t have candlelight dinner. Dinner actually was the second half of yesterday’s Super Bowl subs. Do we know romance, or what?
Actually, we do. I was going to get my bass tomorrow, but she has a doctor’s appointment, so I had to go today. Putting the bass in the back of my unheated pickup for an hour and a half wouldn’t have been good for it. Too much temperature change too quickly can wreak havoc with an eighty-six year old instrument. So her gift of love was letting me drive her car today. Mine to her was not insisting she go with me. After last week’s marathon drive to pick up my bike from the shop in Ohio, she was quite content staying home.
We still like special occasions, and are always careful to treat each other with respect, kindness, and tenderness, but more than fifty years of loving each other has taught us the value of the ordinary. Today was just that, and tomorrow may be the same, but true love isn’t rooted in soil laden with jewels; it’s pretty ordinary. And the ordinary is, well…pretty.
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