He Takes Out The Trash.

He takes the trash out – I don’t even have to ask.

He just does it.

The dishes, the laundry, that man does it all.

He’ll do it until he’s 100, I bet.

He is my sidekick.

My protector.
A full-time bodyguard.

The maker of big belly laughs.

He is logical – rational.

The keeper of my peace.

He’s that “feels just right” type of feeling – that “keep you safe” and “treat you right” kind of dreaming.

The keeper of my baggage – the holder of my dirt.

He is my best friend.

My secret keeper – the vault.

The sweetest years that I have known.

The best of the times, the worst of them.

He is the compass on my map.

The best man.  An even better Dad.

He picks up my pieces, and he picks up after me.

I am lucky.

He is the first call, the last call – and each one between.

The one call for me.

He is humble, he is kind.

The love of my life.

And without ever asking him to do it at all, that man never forgets to take the trash out.

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