I love your idea of love,
like when you tore the head off Hannah's favorite doll only to ask me to sew it on again.
You love my need to please. I learned how to sew, so I could fix that raggedy doll that you threw in the trash.
A black eyed, fabric covered face in day old spaghetti.
Every argument is a shovel load of last night's supper, burying EVERY LAST STICH that we discarded and repaired.
Tonight I made tacos with ground beef, red onions, garlic, cumin and paprika.
I thought you were going to eat tonight but you said you weren't hungry.
Still, you were pleased I wrapped the meat slurry in plastic, only after it had fully cooled.
You love my common sense. You love refrigeration. You love how we watched Jeopardy.
I didn't try to answer any questions this time. You love my silence.
You hate Jeopardy.