He is not a gardner.
He leaves that space for me,
the most beautiful space on the property.
Instead, he lifts boards, shovels gravel into the right places,
mows the lawn, and plants trees.
He is not a cook.
He allows me the creative work of making our food
just the way I want it.
Instead, he cleans the kitchen after I have littered it with pots, spoons, cutting boards, and vegetable peels
from end to end.
He is not a handyman.
He allows me to hire help to build my projects
with hardly a question about the cost.
Instead, he drives me to my parents’ graves
to place Christmas flowers, to the mall
to search for presents, and to doctors’ appointments
that both of us prefer to avoid.
I said that he had never decorated our house for Christmas.
He disappeared to bring home poinsettas
and a Christmas wreath, which he installed
on the mantle.
Did I say he maintains the car and truck
and arranges vacations?
When I married him twenty-five years ago
I fell into a pot of honey.
Instead of a belly of jelly, my husband has a heart
as large as his enormous spirit.
He is my Santa Claus.
Merry Christmas from your loving wife,
Sandra
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