As Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat so aptly put, it’s lucky I’m in love with my best friend.
My best friend is Mario. Mario knows me, knows my hopes and dreams, fears, worries, goals, idiosyncrasies, faults, pet peeves, skills, loves, habits, hobbies, affictions. (And he loves me just the same.) He knows how I like my coffee and which Christmas cookie is my favorite. He knows I’m vegetables’ worst enemy. He knows I love cooking for him, knows it makes my heart sing when he closes his eyes and just says, “Mmmm.” He knows I get cold easily and that “la mantita azul” is perfect for such occasions. Most of all, though, he knows I love him. I remind him of it daily, hourly, as often as I can. It’s never too much for the best man I’ve ever met.
When I was a little girl, I made a list about my future husband. I no longer have the list, but its contents are ingrained in my mind. I described a noble man, not a perfect man, but a man who was striving to be the best for his wife, his family, his children. Imagine my surprise when, one day in 2009, I met that man. I met the man I had always dreamed of, the faceless, nameless man who was no longer faceless nor nameless. In October 2009, Mario put a face and a name to him. And everyday I get to hug that man, kiss him, and tell him that I love him.
What I’m trying to say is this: I know that, just as easily, Mario’s and my paths could have missed each other. I could have chosen a different one, and never found him. Yet somehow, some way, I did. This world is crazy; we live on separate continents, speak different languages. But here we are. I am so lucky.
“Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” – Emily Bronte