One letter at a time. It can seem tedious. A skilled typist can snap out five hundred characters a minute without breaking a sweat. Yet the effort feels too puny to take on a whole manuscript, or a biography. There are, all told, only twenty six letters to work with. Capitals and punctuation stretch the possibilities for meaning. But the letters themselves fit on a child's set of blocks, or in an alphabet book with aardvarks and zebras.

 

Back when people used typewriters, I had one whose e no longer had the oomph to print the paper. So when I looked over the paragraphs, there were spaces sprinkled amid most of the words where the e did not show up. It was hard to decipher. What was I trying to say?

 

My life sometimes feels chopped into individual key strokes... this spoon washed, that sandwich made. Do they string together to create something of more significance than their ephemeral worth? 

 

Where are the letters with which I compose a marriage? I buy carrots, because John likes them. Done. I wash his socks because he has run out. Snap. I find his barbershop tie, or try to, because he is late for a show. Bang. I smile at him across the room, because it warms him. Click. I hold his hand in the dark. Press.

 

Do those small motions say anything? Do they construct meaning within the ribbons of time? 

 

It feels monotonous, with its clicking repetition. But what else would I use? These small kindnesses are some of the few dozen actions that blend together to spell a lifetime... soft words, a touch, warm soup, sitting side by side. How many ways are there? If I were to omit the carrots, or the socks, it would leave holes in my story.

 

But together, the very runes weave the tale of The Love of Husband and Wife.