All You Need is Love, an Ode to Love

Who knows how long I’ve loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely lifetime
If you want me to– I will.

I Will, The Beatles

When it snowed in LA, in the 1980s, he made a snowball and kept it in the freezer for a week. 

This is just one of the little things that made me fall in love with him.

The drawer in the kitchen where we keep tools, batteries, and everything useful is always well stocked — we rarely run out of things because he makes sure we have plenty, from Scotch tape to the eyeglasses screwdriver kit.

“Why do you waste all that money on six packs of batteries in every damn size?” I used to complain.

I lived all my life in fear of losing and wasting the little money I had — so I couldn’t understand why he would spend his for things he didn’t immediately need, like birthday cards, copies of a book he already had to give to a friend, or beautiful photographs of Madonnas to keep in the car, “just” because they were, in fact, beautiful.

Today, I regret grumbling about all this. I don’t know why I wasn’t able to see how special he was; I guess I was scared of a life so different from mine.  When we were only acquaintances I had even mistaken his shyness and politeness for arrogance. What a fool I was!

I have cried a lot lately. I have cried a lot because I fear losing him, because I have wasted precious moments of our life together fighting and shielding myself from what I couldn’t understand — what an extraordinary human being he is.

A few days ago, I needed two AA batteries for Catherine’s nail trimmer.  So I opened the magic drawer and there they were, plenty of. I cried. For the batteries and the snowball in the fridge are the kind of details that make me love him more every day.  It’s as if through the little things I am able to look through him.  A well stocked kitchen drawer, plenty of light bulbs in the cabinet beneath the pantry, fish tacos from Poquito Más, and that restaurant in Santa Barbara he wanted me and my parents to try are a magnifying lens to read the instructions of his heart.

Why did we fight in Santa Barbara?  Why did I refuse to have dinner there?  I can’t have that day back.

I love how he adds his green curry to the green papaya salad, or that he doesn’t mind if some Four Fruits preserve lands on his eggs.  I love how he eats yogurt, I love how he cuts cheese, that he sets the table with the “good silverware”, and that he always plays music while we eat supper.

I love him so much that it hurts.

I see the white roses on the living room table, those roses that have hints of yellow and pink, and I forget that he is clumsy sometimes, that he has bumped into that same table twice in the past hour, and that he has splashed water on the floor when he put the roses in the vase.

I look at a photo of him on the fridge, he is 8 years old, and he’s wearing reading glasses with a thick, black frame — or maybe it’s brown, I can’t tell. I stare at his sweet, curious and witty face, and I see how he has become the handsome man he is today, with his two-day silver beard, wearing a Paul Smith long-sleeve purple shirt over black jeans — sharp, elegant, timeless, a rock star in disguise.

When I walk towards the garden, near the floor-to-ceiling window, a digital picture frame dissolves photographs of us one into the other.  I turn on the pool lights so that the garden is a little brighter at sunset, and then I glimpse at another photo of him; he is a little older, and I perceive a shadow of melancholia hovering over his face, but also the same nerdy joy that has remained sheltered in his eyes to this day.  Today he is one of the most talented and brilliant piano players in the world, a unique songwriter, too.

A few nights ago, he went into the studio and played Stevie Nick’s Storms while I stayed in the living room; I pretended I was busy working on the new website, but mostly I listened to his hands creating melody, and to his voice singing every word as he had written it himself.  I felt a lump in my throat, and my eyes filled up with tears; my eyes filled up with tears of love, of joy, of fear, regret, hope, compassion, and infinite gratitude.

He always talks in whispers, so I often ask him to repeat entire sentences.  But I listen to him when he thinks I am in my own world, or when he believes what he’s saying is not important, relevant, or smart.  He is the smartest and more cultured man I know; I learn from him, he makes me a better writer, a better person.  I look at him when he is in the garden with Catherine; he shows her the orange tree, the rosemary, the thyme, and the statue of St. Francis. He thinks I am cooking, but I am contemplating each and every one of his movements.  His hair is brushed by the wind that has finally gotten cooler in the valley.  He is funny, curious, brave, generous, patient, loving, sexy, and he is devoted to us.  He is my husband.

This is my gift to you, Mr. Benmont Tench. This is my ode to you.  We agreed on not exchanging material gifts this time; we are giving each other the gift of TM for Valentine’s day, and for our wedding anniversary.  But this love letter was past due, so think of this as a token, the card, the flower, the flourless chocolate cake that you love so much, and that I know you are not getting because I am trying to lose the baby weight.

I love you, my love. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Alice