The Warmth of Mr G

You were thinking of warmth long before the house could feel it. Covering the pipes, sealing the floor, protecting what would one day hold us. While you worked, love moved through your hands. Quiet. Patient. Certain. I rode my bike through the cold wind to you, carrying a warm meal, wanting to warm your stomach the way you were warming our home. The warmth beneath my feet is the language you speak best. Thank you for loving me this way— with foresight, with strength, with care so steady it becomes shelter.