It is not your singing voice..like the sound of a kettle boiling dry. It is not the wet socks you wring into my plants. It is not that I know you will always return, because you make a point to never use the word goodbye..that’s not why I love you.
It is not the fact that you are odd. When you whisper damp in my ear, “There is Beetroot Dip on aisle five in here”. That you collect travel stories of the many places you have found a Loo. It is not your profound dislike of beets, for I have come to loath beets to.
It is not the knitted scarfs, your Ma sends me several times a year. (And I donate to the charity shop) I don’t love you for the carrot spice muffins that you bake, to leave on a plate at the bus stop. That’s not why I love you.
I don’t love you when you lead us on a great big walk, get brambled and muddy and wet to the knee. Share scones and a thermos of tea at a view point high above the city. That’s not why I love you.
Because we share a past and are living in the now. We don’t fret over what will come in the end. In the quiet of night, from my turquoise chair, hear the soft turn of page and the tap of your pen. That’s not why I love you.
I don’t love you for the sand left bottom of the bath. I don’t love you out in public when you just, must have to laugh. I don’t love the obituaries you read that move you to tears. You have quite a remarkable, inside looking out whirled view.
It has been since you bonked me with a Mangel- Wurzel 27 years…and you have never asked of me, anything that I could not do..you are kind, that and of course your mind,is why I love you.