He fixes me coffee. And helps me out in so many different ways. Always cheerful, always willing. Even if it means putting aside his computer and whatever he has been reading and come rescue me.
Love means cleaning up after me when I cannot. Love means cleaning me up when I am too weak. Love means taking my arm and helping me up and down.
Love listens when I grouse, and encourages me when I question. Love is indeed, so patient and kind.
Love picks me up when I am down. And hugs me close when I am cold. Love calls and emails and writes funny stuff that makes me laugh. Love holds my hand, and smooches my neck. And cuts the hair around my ears. He even counts the Scrabble tiles when the math gets to be too much for me.
Love gets my door, and holds it wide, and waits for my gait even when my nose is checking out the moon. Love waters, and mows. Love changes out the hundreds of Christmas light bulbs. Inside and out.
Love plants. Love plunges. And love unplugs what he plants.
Love smiles, and endures snoring. And sets all things computers right.
Love listens. And is wise. And is witty and manly and close.
What does love look like around here? Why, love looks just like my dear husband, Bob