May 8: Dinner with my Wife, Pablo Neruda, "Your Feet"

I am going to dinner with my wife in a few minutes.  One of our favorite local restaurants where they have garlic bread that drips with butter and stuffed shells that would make Jesus weep.

I don't tell my wife I love her often enough.  Most days, the only conversations we have are right before we fall asleep in bed.  We see each other in the morning for a few minutes and for a couple of hours at night, when we're both too exhausted to carry on any meaningful discourse.

So, tonight, we will talk.  Eat.  Laugh.

Saint Marty is ordering the tortellini.

Your Feet

by:  Pablo Neruda

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

I may have a gin and tonic, too