Last night I was stealing more of a stare than a glimpse when it occured to me that he isn't mine at all. He is simply the man who (for reasons unknown to me) loves me above everything else in this world.
The man who puts my life and happiness above his own. Everyday. Whose patience, sweat, and sacrifice puts food in our bellies and clothes on our backs. I have very little to do with it, really; and so can't really call him mine at all.
But here he is. Dedicated and trustworthy. The man you find in a Jane Austen book (minus the title and money, of course). And now I wonder who, in fact, is the thief?
Happy Birthday,
from one thief to another.
