And I believe him. Because he acts like it’s true. And because it feels true to me, too: this everyday love of ours as a gift. I love getting into bed with him at night, and I love having coffee with him in the morning, even if it’s two quick gulps before work. I love the way he’ll wake me from a bad dream; I love having someone around to do all the chopping when me make dinner; I even love the way he never ever—Never. Not ever—picks up his raggedy old misshapen underwear off the bathroom floor. Okay, maybe I don’t love that, but I haven’t choked him with any, not even with the poop-skiddiest pair, and whether he knows it or not, that’s a gift, too.
I’m so in love with this funny little man that when Santa Claus starts singing about Coming to Town, I get swept right up in the spirit. I bu
