Valentine's Day, cont.

Charlie and I know Sam's got this

Yesterday I said Happy Valentine’s Day to the man who, when my mom ears were roused from slumber by what sounded like retching (which, as it turned out, was retching) to which I said Charlie, are you okay? and Sam responded what’s wrong? Then I said I think he’s throwing up, though I knew, rather than thought, but ugh, I was so sleepy and warm. And Sam, in his underwear in the middle of a frigid February night jumps out of bed, inspects the floor and espies the teeniest clump of dog vomit and goes out to see what Charlie’s up to. In the meantime I burrow under the blankets, because, as I said, I was sleepy, and it was so warm. Sam locates Charlie pawing at the front door, his canine cue that he doesn’t just want, but needs to go out.

Sam goes from underpants to fully-dressed in under ten seconds and takes Charlie out into the ten degree night. In the meantime, I drag my toasty ass to the bathroom for some toilet paper and soapy water, which I use to mop up the vomit clump on the rug. Then, Sam’s back, stripping off his jeans and T shirt, and Charlie’s back, climbing into bed between us. It is three fifteen am.

Thank you for taking care of that, I say, and he tells me that the Rams ended up winning. I turn off the light and I think it’s Valentine’s Day, and offer a shoutout to the cosmic good fortune that the guy I met in high school who liked motorcycles, chocolate milk, and Bob Dylan would grow up into a man who is there to help without hesitation or resentment, and lands on the silver lining (thank you, Rams).

Valentine’s Day wasn’t big enough to contain you, Sam, hence the spillover into the 15th, and every day, forever. Charlie sees you the same way I have for a long, long time: as unconditional love in action.