To Idris, on our seventh
Idris,
Seven years. I counted this morning because you were asleep and I was not.
Here is something I have never said. When you come home and take off your shoes by the door, left then right, every day in the same order, something in me settles. I cannot explain it. It is the sound of you being here.
I am sorry about the grocery list argument. You were right about the oat milk.
I booked the table at the place with the bad parking, because I know you like it.
Happy anniversary.
MAKE IT YOURS