Dear husband, there are times when I think that I’m capable of killing you but then my senses kick in and I realise that I don’t have a pretty black dress to wear to your funeral and I stop short. Of course, only I would start a love letter overflowing with murder and violence but perhaps it should be testament to the kind of wonderful human being you are for loving me and my madness. It should also be a testament to your madness that we are still together almost 15 years later, so perhaps your madness is of a higher order than mine but hey, this isn’t a competition. Just for the record if it was a competition, I would win but probably only because you let me. After all this time, you’re still the man who drives me insane, the nutcase who hates reading and the grouch who fills my heart with a single sleepy smile in the morning.
Many years ago, when the first spring rains brought new life to what winter had laid to rest, you placed your head on my lap and we laughed in field of green. Obvious to all except us, there was a tangible chemistry that mingled with the smell of rain and freshly cut grass, it was a chemistry we would soon discover after our first Vodka soaked kiss. I’m not quite sure why you needed the Vodka for courage, but I will never forget the slight movement of my hair as you brushed it away from my shoulder or the feel of your lips on my skin. Drunk on more than the Vodka, I knew that whatever happened from that day on, I would never regret a single moment of it.
Now we find ourselves, so many years later, married with two barbaric dogs who have a penchant for dispensing farts that rival nuclear bombs before they leave the room. I have fought with you, I have fought with myself; I have hated you and I loved you more than I ever realised I was capable of. I have felt your sorrow and you have held me through mine. No one on earth has understood me and misunderstood me as much as you do, I’m just glad we agree on the big things like what cheese is the tastiest and which setting works best for our dishwasher. I have fought with you in public, we’ve gone to bed angry and we’ve both hurt each through angry words, regretted the moment they were formed. It’s a good thing you barely pay attention to what I say, else you may not be so forgiving to my defensive sarcastic barbs. We’ve punctuated our sentences with kisses, we’ve annoyed everyone around us by being stupidly happy and I’ve fallen in love with you more times than I can remember. I know you as if you are a part of me, perhaps the best part and there is no one in this world that I’d rather be with (even if a shirtless Mark Walberg asked nicely).
I love you dear husband, more than ice cream and more than our dogs (but please don’t tell the older one, he’s sensitive). It sounds selfish but I love who I am with you, in loving you, I’ve learnt to love myself and bloody hell I’m awesome (there is no place for modesty in a love letter). I don’t know how the future will take shape but I know that with you, my future is going to be an adventure and that there is nothing we can’t do. Okay, I think I’ve been mushy enough for a lifetime now, please don’t quote anything I’ve written in our next fight, there is a chance it will be met with violence.