This chat took place while he was ironing the clothes that I picked out for him for the week. (The Naval Medical Center makes him dress up, and he can't even wear scrubs in the parking lot. So now I have a lot more laundry to do than when he was at UCSD Hillcrest and wore scrubs almost exclusively.) He is perfectly capable of picking his own clothes--we've purchased things that are practically like the Giranimals of our youth; easy to match--but when I do it he feels loved, so I do it. I mean, really, how easy is that? Plus it makes me feel artistic and useful. And since I've put off going to the comissary for over a month and haven't cleaned much of anything lately, it's at least one relatively domestic task that can make me seem like a good wife.
J: I liked your blog.
O: Which one?
J: I'm not sure.
O: What was it about?
J: It was poetic.
O: The one about the pills?
J: Yeah, I liked the way it was written. Like poetry.
O: I haven't written poetry in years. In high school I used to write it all the time. Everyone thought I would be a writer when I grew up. But I didn't give myself the chance because I didn't believe I could make it.
J: You're still growing up.
He said it gently, like anything was possible. I looked up from the plants I was potting (hoping that tiny succulents will survive the tiny pots that were a gift that killed relatively small basil and mint) and smiled at him.
O: Thanks. :)