The Lost Contact

A note to the counselor:

Dear Honey,

     I was up late last night, writing and when you woke this morning, I didn’t hear you.  For such a large man, you move really quiet.  You wake earlier then me most mornings and never turn on a light or open the blinds.  You move in the dark, searching in your drawer for matching socks, then in the closet for your belt left on yesterday’s pants laid over the hamper.  I usually hear you just as your about to leave, as you tip toe past the bed to the door.  I roll over, whispering “I love you” and you gently kiss me before you leave for work.

But halfway through your morning routine, you lost your contact; your expensive contacts because you have such bad eyesight, you can’t wear disposable lenses. 

You searched the entire bathroom floor, thinking it may have dropped there. Then you took the plumbing in the sink apart, certain it had fallen down the drain.

With sleepy eyes and barely awake, I offered to help you. You suggested I may still be tired and encouraged me back into bed, but I wanted to help.  We looked for a few more minutes, but you were in a hurry.  With your glasses on, you conceded.  The battle of the missing contact had been lost.

Later you called, discouraged and suggested you would need to order a new pair of contacts.

Still, I had hope.  Maybe, I could find it.

Later in the day, I walked into the bathroom and couldn’t believe what I saw.  There on the floor, plain as day was your contact staring back at me.  How I saw it, I'm not sure!

I picked it up, giddy with joy. I couldn’t wait to tell you the good news, when a humbling feeling came over me.  It was a feeling of love . . . for you.

Because you do so much for me.

You come home every day with a smile.

You make me smoothies.

You keep the pool immaculate.

You remind me when I have a dentist appointment.

You read to our children.

You take the car in for maintenance.

And so much more.

Most importantly, you love me.

Your contact on my finger meant I had done something special for you, but I was humbled because finding your contact was a reminder I could never keep up with all you do for me.
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