When the lightning strikes

Since I spent the weekend celebrating my Sweetie-Pie's birthday, I thought I'd take a minute to talk about him.

<- This is John.

Almost every picture of John is bad because my hands are perpetually shaky. In our house, 90% of the pictures are pictures of The Midget, 8% of the others were taken by The Midget, and the remaining 2% are either ruined by my inability to take a photograph or are pictures of my butt. This photo of John is thusly a cherished image.

Most images of John are self-created. He is a painter who, like my beloved Frida Kahlo, is inspired by his own features. I like to watch his various caricatures appear, their familiar details warped into mythos and largesse. Like Frida, he plays up the same features until they become symbols, something more significant than a lengthening hairline or cluster of curls.

The most wonderful thing about John isn't his ability to wield a paintbrush, but rather the size of his heart. Almost five years ago, he adopted The Midget and I, giving us each a place in his magical world. I had known him, slightly, for about two years. At one point, maybe our second meeting, I shook his hand for the first time. It was as if lightning struck my fingers, and for a moment, I felt as if I floated above the face of the world.

Sometimes I still feel that way.

I am glad the lightning led me to John. I am not the cleverest girl; it might have taken me years to figure out how utterly amazing this quiet man is. Luckily, I know it now, and I couldn't be more delighted. Sweetie-Pie, you make my life sweet.