byChrisWhite – 2015

Now, I’ll be the first to confess, when it comes to outward displays of emotion, I reckon I’m a curmudgeon of the highest order. I don’t laugh out loud near enough to do justice to the things that genuinely tickle my fancy, nor do I cry as often as I’d like, just to prove I’m not some extraterrestrial automaton dispatched to Earth to quietly observe human emotion. I suspect you read some of the things I write, squint sideways, and wonder to yourself who this stiff-upper-lipped stranger is, helping himself to the leftovers off your plate, and what he’s done with your actual husband. The truth is, my mind’s packed tighter than a jar of homemade pickles, but the sentiments always seem to squeeze out more comfortably through my fingertips than from my lips.

I realize that I’m hardly what you’d call expressive. If someone rounded up the top five billion emotional folks on this here spinning globe, I wouldn’t be among ’em. I’d bet there’s a couple of those ISIS fellas out there who could give me a run for my money in the “emotional expression” department. When you laugh, I grin. When you’re overwhelmed with joy and weep, I smile quietly. What you might not see is that those little twitches on my face are the tip of a vast iceberg of joy, a billion neurons lighting up beneath my nondescript exterior. Yes, I love. I feel. It’s just that my face sometimes forgets to RSVP.

I’d like to think that you understand me, that you can sense the man beneath the stoic veneer, that you appreciate the granite slab that holds steady, no matter the storms. Sure, we don’t live in some utopia where my mood doesn’t ever go sideways or my job doesn’t ever turn sour. It’s not a flawless fairyland where you never crave a little something more from me, a little dose of passion and sentiment, especially on a day like today, your birthday. But, by golly, I’d like to try my best because you deserve more than the stoic silence of a husband who writes far better than he ever says.

So here it is: Happy Birthday! I wanted that to be its own sentence, something whole and unblemished. But it looked so lonely there, sitting alone on the page, and I realized I never want you to feel like that. And that’s why I can usually be found clutching your hand, your marvelous hand. To me, it’s a perfect hand, not just for what it is, but for what it does. It’s the thrill of a gentle caress, the comfort of a soft scratch late at night. It kneads the dough for biscuits, it pens sweet thank-you letters, it untangles the knots in my soul. It is a hand worth holding, and I cherish every chance I get to hold it.

You are the very best friend a man could ask for. I love how you are still friends with those you grew up with, it shows loyalty, kindness, and thoughtfulness. And here I am, the lucky fellow who gets to wake up beside you, the lucky one who falls asleep next to you. I don’t have many sleepless nights because I’m forever at peace, knowing that I won. Yes, I won the greatest prize of all, you. I outfoxed every other suitor, every man looking for a partner as remarkable as you. They lost, and I came out ahead, and my trophies are those long red hairs I find tangled in my clothes or, heaven help me, in some perplexing places on my body. When I stumble across one of those vibrant red reminders, I grin (internally, of course) and pinch myself. This is my life, this is my reality, and I get to hold you, kiss you, and share my days with you.

And oh, your laugh. I love your laugh. It’s infectious. My own laugh pales in comparison, an anemic little chuckle standing beside the richness of your joy. Your laughter is full and true, something that cheers me up and makes me feel like I ought to earn the gift that is you. These lines on my face? They’re from smiling at you, all these years. I am collecting wrinkles, and they’re all your fault, and I don’t mind a bit.

You are truly beautiful. If you were a president, you’d be Babe-a-ham Lincoln. In Latin, you’d be “babia majora.” Had you lived in the Renaissance, it would’ve been the “Emily period,” the great masters would’ve painted you endlessly. Your hair glows like spun sunshine, your eyes are like maple sweets. If you’d let me, I’d kiss you from dawn till dusk, though I reckon that’s a mite creepy. No matter, you let me hold your hand, and that’s enough for me.

Now, I can’t write a tribute to you without mentioning your culinary prowess, though I hardly need to, because your cooking isn’t just a display of skill, it’s an expression of love. Every biscuit, every simmered sauce and spiced roast, is you giving a piece of yourself to us. It’s love translated into nourishment, and it’s one of many ways you show how full and generous your heart is. You love with all your might, and that makes you an incredible wife and a rare, irreplaceable friend. I pray I never lose you.

I hope this birthday is even a fraction as special for you as it is for me because, for me, it means another year with you, the woman I love, the best friend a person could ever hope for. My love for you grows every year, as I discover more and more about you, each new rosebud that blooms reveals yet another shade of beauty. You redefine the meaning of perfection, year after year. You are simply amazing.

Happy Birthday, Emily.

There. I gave it its own line, after all.