My wife always asked me if I would love her if she was a worm or an animal or even a bug.

I'd never given that question much thought.

I used to laugh when she said it, thinking it was one of those harmless, hypothetical things that people in love say when they're trying to be cute.

I always told her yes. Of course I would.

She'd tilt her head, squint at me for a second, then nod, satisfied, and move on to something else.

I loved her.

Not the kind of loud, fiery love

that burns itself out or tries to prove something to everyone else.

I loved her in the way you love your own breath,

something you don't even think about most of the time,

but couldn't survive without.

She made the world feel less sharp and hostile.

She had this way of looking at everything that made it seem more alive, even when she

was dead quiet, just sitting at the kitchen table with her tea and the crossword.

The room felt full. Her presence stretched

into everything. She had quirks, dozens of them. She refused to kill bugs in the house,

no matter how many legs they had. She always had to sleep on the left side of the bed, even in hotels.

She whispered small apologies to every tree we passed when we went hiking,

even the ones already dead.

And she believed in things, odd things.

Not in a delusional way, but quietly, personally.

Things she'd never forced on anyone.

...