But you may not know why I am writing this. You may not understand why I don’t want to just lean across and tell you, in far fewer words.
But then the dog barks. Or our baby screams. And we glare, I bark, we both scream. And then we laugh. And I take the dog for a walk, and come back and we sit in separate rooms. Not because we’ve fallen out, but because we don’t like the same television programmes – you don’t want me listening to you dictate house details without trying to make you laugh.
We laugh a lot.
I’m writing this because of you; because I am lucky to have you.
I will find this weekend hard without you. Not so hard that I won’t enjoy it, but still, hard enough that I know you won’t be there. I’m lucky to be going. Others wouldn’t accept it – but you; you are happy for me to do it. You are always there supporting the things I really want to do.
So why am I writing now? Fear of flying making me a tad morbid – not really. I’ll have no one to squeeze their hand as we take off or land, unless I’m “lucky” enough to be sat next to your Mum on the plane.
No – the reason is simple.
The Giro d’Italia today passed through the valley with that service station in it. Remember, our service station? The one we could see from the villa complex on the day we got married. The race finishes in Montecatini. I doubt I’ll be able to pick out any of the sights from when we were last out there, but I can still remember the good times. Yes, there were good times. The good times far outweigh everything else.
And still the good times flow. Like an endless bottle of something great; something Tuscan from 2006. Our year – but then, every year is our year. You make every day worth remembering – not just the dates I have sown in to the jackets that no longer really fit me.
I’m writing this because I want to tell you how much you mean to me – how proud I am to be yours – how you are sometimes all I ever need, to simply sit and smile.
You taught me how to smile again.
I love you