Well, really, love is little more than a man bringing a pillow out to his wife on the hammock.

But of course that’s not true.

It is a man knowing his wife, noticing that it’s sunny, that the toddler is down for her nap, that she can certainly be found reading, swaying just outside the sunroom.

It is a husband taking a break from the computer, the stacked papers, the receipt files, walking to the kitchen to refill his water glass, peering out the window to see she is dozing off. He will smile. He has chosen to forget her harsh words from that morning, chosen to forget the eye roll from last night, the pursed lips from the week prior, the cold feet nearly ten years ago.

Love is remembering to forget.

It is a man with mountains of work and a few minutes to his name, and yet, another choice: his wife.

And so, he will tiptoe back to the office, see the paperwork, set down his glass of water. And he will walk away from the desk, past the credenza and toward the sofa to grab a pillow – the plush one, the best one – and he will tuck it under his arm to deliver to an undeserving girl. He will pause his work, he will pause for her.

He is outside now, by the hammock, whispering, I’ve brought you something, and it is just a pillow and it is not at all just a pillow.

It is love, it is love, it is love.

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