The Good Kind Of Magic
Steve knew he had married someone creative.
But several times a year, every year, he was reminded just how creative and how driven Lori actually was.
A dinner party wasn’t just a dinner party. It was a swanky affair with immaculately laid out place settings of antique china and vintage silverware and napkins folded into elaborate shapes and a smorgasbord of made-from-scratch food that all coordinated with a theme for the night that had been months in the planning.
Their kids didn’t have toys. They had unique, hand-crafted toys from the most interesting companies, the result of hours of research undertaken to find the exact right things.
And the things they couldn’t find or couldn’t afford? Lori would make them herself. In her free time, of course–when she wasn’t taking care of their girls, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, or just about any other household chore that needed to be done.
Most recently, though, it had been Christmas. They didn’t have a Christmas tree–they had about a dozen. Each of them set up and decorated by Lori, each dedicated to a particular theme and/or color scheme. For a period of about a week, Steve would go to work in the morning, then come home that evening to find–BAM!–two more fully-decorated trees in the house that hadn’t been there that morning, appearing like magic.
Yes, “magic” was the right word, because Steve didn’t know how she did it. But he loved it; it was one of the many things he loved about her. She was magic.
The good kind of magic, the she-does-all-these-amazing-things-and-I-don’t-know-how type of magic, not the cheesy smoke-and-mirrors-and-blow-dried-hair-and-melodramatic-hand-gestures-and-corny-“suspenseful”-music-and-dumb-fireworks-onstage-in-Vegas type.
For Laura, on her birthday. You’re amazing–thanks for being the good kind of magic. I love you.