My husband is the sexiest man alive

My husband and I met in college. I was energetically pursuing my degree and he had taken up residence in the cafeteria, energetically pursuing a world record in coffee drinking. He would speak ex cathedra from his monobloc chair on the evils of Reaganomics, British motorcycles and the poetry of Pink Floyd. He smoked like an old Dodge with bad exhaust. Dressed in his prized American made black leather jacket and smelling deliciously of Aqua Velva, this guy was mouthy, cocksure and funny as hell.

He had a lopsided smile that managed to be silly and seductive all at the same time. When he smiled at you, you felt like the prettiest girl in the world and wanted very much to have babies with him. His blue eyes shone like Lake Michigan after a storm. 

In a time when you were one or the other, Albert was both. Or neither. He's a gear head philosopher. A Catholic liberal. A progressive anachronism. His favorite books were Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, The Communist Manifesto, The Complete Joy of Homebrewing and Animal Farm. 

He can repair anything, from our daughter's necklace to our son's Firebird. All while deconstructing the Weimar Republic. Or some obscure part of a Royal Enfield. He loves Polish food, Armenia, IPA, women of every color, stray cats and babies. He's not ashamed to cry, laugh and hug his boys. 

He goes to confession every week and really does try to swear less afterward. He's as rambunctious as a Michigan thunderstorm and his anger blows over about as quickly. He reads stories to the kids, decorates with cheesy streamers for each birthday, is ruthless at Battleship, tells every he loves them every day, is kind to everyone and has even been known to paint his little daughter's toenails. 

 37 years, six babies, including two stillborn daughters and 11 grandkids later his smile still charms and the baby blues still shine. He still has that child-like joie-de-vivre. The hair is a little more silver but he still works 12-hour nights and makes me coffee every morning. 

This man and I have been up more steep hills and down into more deep valleys than I could count or rename. I'm sure there are more. And we haven't even gotten started traveling! So the rest of the world has yet to meet us! I'm glad indeed to have such a sexy guy to go through life with. Ad Infinitum et Aeternum, lover boy.

The Little Girl at the Window

 a chubby little girl with a permanent squint that looks like a scowl

that's what I see in my kiddie pics

what was I thinking behind that funny, awkward face?

I don't remember

I don't recall a bedroom. Or bed.

What was the wallpaper like? 

I lived in so many places. 

38 before 20, if I counted them all

I can't visualize a dinner table 

except at the grama-grampa house

There are few doing-stuff together memories 

I played alone a lot 

I wandered around cities alone

at 6

I was a latchkey before it was a thing

I was sick alone

I never called any place "my" home

It was always dad's or mom's 

And later stepmom's or stepdad's 

I "lived with" them, I said

I slept on their couches

On makeshift beds with someone else's pillow

On unheated porches

in the baby's room 

toys came and went with no warning

One day they were there 

and the next, they were gone

sold, I think. I never asked. 

food was thin on the ground

vitamins for breakfast  

a power bar for lunch and salad for supper 

I have stolen food before

Chores were never in short supply

lists and lists for me to do

no one else 

just me

I've always felt outside

looking in other families' homes

my little face pressed to the window

steaming up the glass with my breath

Always seeing  but never really seen

till someone needed something 

a job done or a target

Apart but not a part

I never felt anything about it

I'm told I looked miserable

at family gatherings

I can't remember those either

I didn't know it was wrong

this nothing having but work

I know now it was.

At least, I think I do.

I still don't feel it's wrong

for me anyway

for others it would be

For my kids, hell yes

They had beds and toys 

some are still in the basement

and memories

happy and a few sad

I still cook oversized meals

even though they've flown

I treasure their drawings

and stuffed animals

I'm feeding the little girl at the window

I gave her a bed and some toys

She has a home

She can call it hers

She still frosts up the glass

when she forgets she can come in

or is afraid to

or locks herself out

She still stays small 

But she's staying longer

and smiling more

and remembering

Amen