The Little Things
I had to smile when I reached the realization.
Brock and I were couch-locked, tucked under blankets in front of a roaring fire built to chase away the cold. The movie we selected began with some screen text to set the scene. Without hesitation, Brock started to read the words to me. Not because I’m illiterate, but because I’m pretty much blind. He always reads distant (I’m useless with street signs) or movie text to me without my having to ask.
A half hour later, my lips were starting to lose their protective coating of beeswax. “Where’s the emergency chapstick?” I asked. He picked up the extra tube from the end table and passed it over to me. Within weeks of starting to date, he had emergency chapstick stashed in his car and around his house. I can get pretty panicky when I can’t locate lip balm.
After the movie ended, I retired to bed (I’m pitiful) while Brock stayed downstairs to watch another flick. Some time later, I felt my Kindle being lifted off my head and my glasses being slid off my face. I stirred and grunted as he kissed my forehead before walking over to his side of the bed. One of the signs of my singleness for a few years was the semi-permanent indentations on my nose from falling asleep with my glasses on every night. Now that only happens when he’s out of town.
Each of those gestures says he sees me. He knows me. He loves me.
We tend to look for love in the grand scale. The words. The romance. The events.
When it often finds its home in the little things.