He arrives home, his brain full from an unexpected Sunday at the office. He finds me, fatigued from five hours of tidying, cleaning, trying to keep four other kiwis happy and helping. He sends me to a quiet place, he couriers me a medicinal glass. He wafts through the kitchen, creating comfort for the hungry, the thirsty, the weary. He bathes us in words of peace, of love, of treasure hunting later in the afternoon. I read my book. I find a lovely poem and muse upon it whilst sipping and savouring. He feeds us his signature Dog's Breakfast, a wonderfully comforting steaming mash of two-minute noodles and bacon, onions, grated carrots, corn; followed by Perfect French Toast made with yesterday's baguettes and drizzled with maple syrup. We all collapse in a heap in the lounge, surrounded by a happy ever after movie. He cleans up the kitchen. He takes gleeful kids on the afore-promised treasure hunt, leaving me again with uncluttered quietness, a sunny breeze caressing yesterday's sun-kissed skin. He returns home after hunting and gathering hot chippies with the children, curls into a comfortable heap on the floor and promptly falls asleep.
This, then, is love. My true love.