We've shared eighteen autumns, him and I.
I love watching him chop wood under the golden hue of fall foliage. Quiet and strong in his favorite plaid shirt. By the end of this day that shirt will smells of pine and smoke and his cologne... I'll breathe the fragrance in deeply, twice, before throwing it in the washer.
I'm thankful for his faithfulness. His patience. His understanding. I'm thankful for his quiet understanding and steadiness. I'm thankful that he does the hard things without complaint, and empties the dishwasher too.
I'm thankful for eighteen autumns.
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