Darling Sylvia,
I trust you; you have my back. You support me, but my taking your input requires you to read what I need and what I can accept. You have learned to match your support to my needs. You somehow divine when I need a hug and when I need a kick in the ass. You know when to listen to my words and when to listen to my heart. You are my safe space, my cheerleader, and my partner.
Your support makes safe space for me. You get me with my insecurities. You truly know I am an introvert in noisy clothing. My intuitions and roles I choose can take me outside of my comfort zone. The non-verbal three-year-old in me prefers to crawl back behind Mom’s corner china-closet. You recognize my tells, and I feel your support as I work myself through situations. You trust the end even if my process is sometimes uncomfortable for you.
Your support helps me face my fears. You hold my hand for prostate cancer appointments. You make me feel safer as I hear scary things. You allow me to voice my fears to you while remaining an “adult,” if I have to.
Your support is affirming in much more fun ways, too. You cheer on my commitments in the community. You stir grits at dawn while I fix breakfast to haul to church for the Methodist Men. You share the hospitality of our home with “my” groups of men and students.
You are a supportive partner with “my” hobby/business cut flower industry. I crave your “ooh—ahhhs” over what is blooming in the garden. At market, we share the work and the loveseat. You excel in community building. After market, we collapse together in our blue chair and rehash all the miracles of the day.
Some 58 years ago, I came back to the dorm from Lumberjack Park amazed that you loved me more than I loved myself. Sylvia, you are a good person, a loving mother and grandma, but you are my lover and my best friend. I won the most important lottery of all.
Love you. Eddie B.