When Beau sets a cup of coffee on my bedside table in the morning to wake me up, I appreciate it. When he leans over the bed and kisses me goodbye, or even just calls out “Bye!” before going out the door, I feel cared for. When he phones home before leaving town to ask if there’s anything I need, I think he is the most considerate man in the world. When he calls to tell me he’s going to work another hour and be late for supper, I feel respected.

I wonder if he realizes how important these small gestures are to me?

I wonder if there are small gestures I make that matter to him, make him feel loved.

Then there are the words that fall out of someone’s mouth almost as an afterthought, but which stay with me, that I hang onto with some hope. For instance, I was at Petra’s home and we were talking about our faces aging. She was saying that she didn’t like the vertical lines that have appeared above her upper lip.

“You don’t have them,” she said, and I replied “I will; I’m only a year behind you.”

She said “I wouldn’t worry if I were you; you’re beautiful!”

I know we say such things out of kindness, and that she is my dearest friend and sees me with loving eyes, and that I’m not beautiful; as a matter of fact, when I hold up a hand mirror to look at my face from the side, reflected in the wall mirror, I have to chuckle a bit because my face reminds me of E.T.’s (remember him, the Extraterrestrial?) if E.T.’s face was flat. My chin seems to recede a bit now, too. It ain’t pretty.

Yet my friend thinks I’m not too frightening. So maybe … maybe … maybe I don’t look the same to others as I do to myself? One can only hope.