Last night, as we were talking through my anxieties, David confided to me that he didn't like to read or write. He said it like he was confessing a long-buried secret, that had been burdening him all these years.
I said, "I know."
He has no secrets from me.
Over the years, I have overlooked his reluctance to read (his only character flaw) and he has overlooked everything else.
We've made it work, see?
On Saturday, David and I took our boys to the bookstore while the girls ran a lemonade stand with their friends. David got stuck for a while in the international travel and maps section while the boys and I hunted through the shelves in the children's section and got lost for a while in the Newberry's.
We passed a table with all kinds of writing books--there are many people with the dream--and I found a little book, which has apparently been quite famous for a decade or two in the writing world. I added it to my pile.
When it was time to go, David asked, pointing at my considerable pile, "Which of those are we getting?"
I was thinking, "All of them. That's why they're here in my pile." But instead, I put a thoughtful look on my face and sorted through the pile, taking one of the paperbacks I had considered for Olivia out.
I smiled up at him. "These ones."
We checked out.
The clerk handed me the bag. It was heavy.
On the way to the car I was filled with that joy that only books can produce. Adrenalin and endorphins and falling in love, all at the same time. David took my hand. He could feel my joy. I looked up into his bemused eyes. And his hand whispered to me all the way to the car, "I don't understand you, but I adore you. See how much I adore you? Even when I don't understand you."
And mine answered back.
And said the very same thing.