David

davidI am sitting at the kitchen table, typing, while Dave works in his office. I can’t make out the words- I can only hear his gorgeous deep voice, which has only gotten deeper and more gorgeous over time. When he is working in his office and I am working in the kitchen, the low baritone of his voice underlies everything I do. Side note: I never called him “David” until recently. I called him Dave, mostly; and sometimes Davy Gravy- the nickname his nieces gave him; and Gravid. But not until his 5-year-old niece Lila started solemnly addressing him as “David” did I pick that up; and now, even that has morphed into “Da-VIDD–” I guess because my family simply cannot call people by their given names. But I call him David now,¬†too. It feels like a nickname.

Dave (or David, or Da-VIDD) has a birthday today. The kids went out by themselves to buy him gifts with their own money, which he is saving to open later tonight. For now, he is working, the low rumble of his voice serving as my background music as it has for the past twenty years.

Twenty years ago, I fell in love with him with my whole heart. Today, my heart is precisely three times bigger than it was then, and there is a huge scar in the center of it- and I still love him with my whole heart. Happy birthday, David. Thanks for being awesome.


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