by MAGGIE M
I ventured out to pick-up a few items at the local store, now that the snow has been shoveled into mountainous heaps. In one corner of the store, I witnessed considerable movement.
It was touching to see the number of men milling over cards and flowers for their beloved. It was close to dinner time and the minutes were evidently ticking in their minds. They were very decisive–bing, bang, boom–and quickly lined-up at the checkout.
It’s the thought that counts.
I’m guessing it’s not comfortable for some men to be watched by a stranger, grinning to boot, while engaged in an obligatory, romantic ritual. They held their flowers and made no eye contact, lest I could see right through them.
I continued to grin. I was the Chessire Cat, inescapable, ever-present.
“I don’t see the women buying anything,” a man guffawed, his wife present. Indeed there were none present.
I grinned again.
We women are such deep pools. Can flowers make our man feel loved? Chocolates? A Hallmark message? O nooooooooooo.
We require candlelight, all time stops, our gaze is fixed and the words pour out:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Or we throw on some sweat-pants and join him on the couch. We let him commandeer the remote tonight.