Happy birthday, husband.
I love your blue eyes and your closet full of striped shirts and the way you tickle me even though you get violent when I tickle you.
When I am doing the dishes for what seems like the hundredth time in a measly week, and the laundry is still living crumpled in the dryer, I take deep breaths and look into this man’s eyes. I see them clear and blue, ringed with strong black. I remember the day I first looked into those eyes and loved the light in them more than I could explain; I remember his twenty-third birthday, and his twenty-fourth, how he hates fanfare and how I get grumpy when he won’t let me make a big deal of him.
You are a big deal.
Plus you’re hot and I want to show you off.
I will remember the day you were twenty five and we stole away to lunch and sat listening to the rain while it pounded on our car.
Someday I will remember your thirtieth, fiftieth and ninetieth birthdays, too. You will still be gorgeous.
I can’t wait to grow old with you.