Snugglufagus

Allison,

I'm writing this secretly, on a clandestine mission to tell you how much I love you. The night is dark and the wind is howling, but lucky for me, I am not Merlin.

I love living with you. I feel like a hobbit in a wizard's house. Oh wait, that means nothing to you because you haven't read The Hobbit. Let me try again: I feel like a little kid on an infinite playdate, except instead of hanging out with another kiddo (who, in Weston, were all ragamuffins), I get to spend my life with a princess.

You make me feel so whole, loved, and snuggled. You are my redwood tree, my sycamore, my... eight other types of trees. Sitting next to you is like holding a gregarious golden retriever, but less smelly.

When we met, I was just a boy who could barely whip cream. Little did I know I would become a boy who cried in front of a toaster oven, ran several miles weekly to get a carrot muffin, mastered the art of french toast, and ate millions of gluten free cookies. Granted, food has been a major through line in my life (breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack time(s)), and I'm glad it has been in our relationship. Before you, my first love was sandwiches. Roast beef, lettuce, tomato, and mayo, ideally on a baguette. A testament to the strength of our love is, about a year into our relationship, I lost sandwiches and I didn't notice.

You are a million, juicy, delicious sandwiches. I'm talking about a million of the best sandwiches, like the one from Sam's Deli in Cape Cod or the one I never told you about from Finagel a Bagel that had this strawberry jam...

ANYWAYS, THIS LETTER IS ABOUT YOU. Since the first time we sat on a park bench together on our first date, I've been more or less obsessed with your hair, your smile, your laugh, your eyes, your intelligence, wit, giggles, prose, sharp editing, wonderful friends, formidable enemies, and piercing gaze. I love you. When you hold my hand, I feel safe, warm, and loved. The warmth is emotional, but sometimes physical, too.

When we would run to each other at the airport after months apart, I felt like I was in the most decadent, magical love story. I feel more love for you today than even in those moments, AND NOT BECAUSE THOSE MOMENTS WEREN'T MAGICAL. Like a potent, fantasical bean stalk, you grow more magical every day.

As you heard from Lilia on Thanksgiving, the most common jab at men in my family is, "You have no feeling for material!!" I am a prime example. Where are the tissues, how do I turn on the vacuum, and what is a screwdriver? I may make up for it with good looks and gumption, but I think there's another problem. I only have so many feelings, and they're all for you :)