I fold the towels. I pair the socks. (I don’t fold underwear because that seems silly.)
I wash the fruit. I bake the biscuits.
I empty the dishwasher placing the knives that special secret way so the drawer doesn’t jam. I close the cupboard door.
I push in the chair. I hang the coat.
I pick up a brown decaying leaf and throw it back outside.
I put the new toilet paper roll on the holder.
I pick up someone’s dirty sock. I refill the water pitcher over and over because no one else seems to know my magic.
I don’t do any of this to be seen.
I don’t do these things to be known, acknowledged or witnessed.
I do these things over and over every single day for love.
With each and every tedious, repetitive– sometimes exhausting–motion I think and feel and know: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love our mess.
I love our dirt.
I love how things get used and need to be washed or replenished and put away.
I love the overfullness and emptiness of different spaces in our home.
I love how you live here with me, together in this communal shelter, our home.
And then by some miracle
–between the rotting leaf and the washing machine–
I steal a few minutes to write this down.
Writing is a way I love myself.
I love how words attempt to capture my enormous feelings,
and I love how I love these humans through countless acts of daily love,
ripples of my own attention.
in gratitude for all you do for love
~becky j suzik