Still Love

Two days ago, while in line at Whole Foods, a friend approached with some news. "I've fallen completely in love with your husband," she said.  And when I didn't say anything, she continued: "Head over heels."

It's not an uncommon line in my world; I've been told the same thing by any number of women who have been charmed by my husband's Latin bearing, unusual stories, and incredible talent for the samba.  But in this case, I wasn't even certain that my friend had met my husband, so when I asked her to clarify, she said five words—Still Love in Strange Places—which is the title of the memoir that I wrote about my husband, his family, and the ways in which El Salvador, war, and coffee growing have shaped them.  "I just read the book," she said, "and I love everything about him.  Everything.  I want to meet him."

I smiled at this, of course, and thought of how often I have wished that my husband, a visual artist, would find the time for the books or essays or poems I've written.  He hasn't often, but he did read and bless Still Love, and perhaps because of that, the making of Still Love stands as one of my favorite experiences as a writer.  I worked for all those years to understand.  He opened the book, and he read.