Yesterday, I re-read my blog top to bottom. Leaned into it with magnifying glass, found a few typos, wished I’d said some things differently, swallowed a few reminders of my brashness.

JF and I at Fort Henry

I realized that not a single post paid homage to my partner, JF – the quiet, perfect person who makes me functional.

Ours isn’t a new or sparkly love. It’s kind of like our house – charming, old, beautiful, quirky, a little worn, comfortable. We work at it a lot. I’m drawn to it. It’s where I want to be most of the time.

JF fixes things, keeps me humble, and likes birds. He reminds me that I enjoy mopey folk music, makes me laugh, and raps about things like toast. He rubs my back when I’m sick and holds my hand when we walk together.

I’m a sentimental boob all of the time, but maybe that’s because I’ve got such a lovely person to be sentimental about. I’m grateful for him every day. Even when he leaves his dirty socks on the coffee table.