The Boy Who Quoth The Raven

I was made of for liking Edgar Allan Poe in high school. One classmate called me “disgusting” for loving Annabel Lee. I did not feel deterred in my love for this poet, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

Until the boy who quoth The Raven.

Although I had met him prior, I couldn’t get a good introduction. A mutual friend introduced us before trying to attain all my attention. So when I saw the boy sitting on a ledge and deeply engrossed in a book, I decided to introduce myself formally. I approached him, smiled, and asked him what he was reading. Years later, he would tell me that he was stunned by that smile he nearly forgot to respond.

He showed me the cover of his paperback, and a familiar face stared back at me. I exclaimed that I was a fan too. He closed the book and began reciting The Raven in its entirety. I was impressed. We continued to make icebreaker conversation until the warning bell sounded. We committed to hanging out soon and parted ways. As I walked to class, I felt something deep in my core. It wasn’t hope, false promise, a fantasy: that boy would be prominent in the future.

I have been in love ever since. And I have fallen in love with him over and over again.

I loved him that summer when we became best friends. Even though my friend confessed her attraction to him, I kept my affections safe in my heart.

I loved him while he was in the military, and our only means of communication was to have sporadic phone calls. But those calls would last for hours on end and be equal parts catching up and picking up right where we left off.

I loved him for coming home one summer to confess his love on my birthday and waiting for me to heal to enter into a relationship.

I loved him for the silly, fun adventures that created lasting memories.

I loved him the day we were married, on a beautiful, sunny, September day without an ounce of cold feet or pre-wedding jitters.

I loved him when we moved into our house and felt like goldfish while we ate dinner because our new home did not have curtains.

I loved him for being so concerned on St. Patricks Day when I felt sick and insisted I go to the hospital, only to find out we were pregnant.

I loved him for him being so over-protective during my pregnancy and ensuring that our daughter and I were safe.

I loved him when he became a stay-at-home dad to watch our newborn.

I still loved him when we separated her first year and missed him every day, despite our hurt feelings.

I loved him when we started bringing our family back together, and we worked hard to heal our wounds together.

I loved watching him heal and giving me what I needed to be a better person.

And there are little things in our daily life that makes me love him more.

The way he has been my biggest supporter of the things I want or need to do for myself.

The way he makes me laugh.

The way he lavishes love and gifts upon our little girl.

The way he is a great friend and confidant to all of those we hold dear.

I love him more than the day I met him, more than the day we started dating, the day we were married, or the day we welcomed our precious child into the world. I love him, not just because he is my husband but because he has, and always will be, my best friend.