the particular love language of homemade waffles

image by katherine kunz

Our seventh wedding anniversary came on September 6, during one of the worst heat waves ever. 112 degrees. So we just hung out in the little room off the garage with a window AC unit and generally felt pretty miserable.

We said we’d celebrate later. But when we say we will do that, we often don’t. And then my friend Jim went into the hospital the next week and that took over all my attention.

But I’d just like to take a moment and say that the day I met Les, almost fifteen years ago, on a dance floor, was the beginning of a blessing no words could ever fully capture. First we were friends, and I was quite certain that was all that I would ever want. But from our friendship grew a gentle, loving romance.

Shortly after we got involved, Les snuck over to the house, while I was on vacation in Maui, and fixed all these little issues, like windows and doors that didn’t close properly. Within a year, he moved in with me, and we have made a home together ever since.

No matter what the hour, if I request a homemade waffle for a bedtime snack, I always get one. Always. And Les has a true gift for waffles.

We listen to each other’s stories, every day. Les focuses on details of home repairs; I am all emotion.

My illness has made our lives harder in many ways, but also given us each ways to grow. And we know that.

I try to remember how Les wants me to dry the cast iron frying pans and Les does his best to turn out the lights in the house by 9 pm, for me. We both forget, often, the household requests we make of each other, but we try not to make a big deal out of it.

Last night when Les got home from work I asked him to lie on my bed with me and listen to some music I had playing on Pandora. We shared a small, light blue blanket. It was the darkening time of day. We just looked at each other, nose to nose, smiling and happy.