“Good morning my sweet angel” are the comforting words that escape from your precious lips each morning. They say the spark dulls in intensity as the number of years increase, but I would have to say that is only the case if you married a dud. George is my gentle man, whose hands are strong enough to hold me up, yet too weak to hurt a creature as small as a fly. The nights my medication keep me up, forcing my frail body to stay plastered to the cold bathroom floor until I muster up enough energy to crawl into bed, George lets me sleep in. On these mornings I wake to the sound of his soft feet strutting around the kitchen preparing me a light breakfast. He knows anything more than a piece of toast and scrambled eggs leaves my stomach whaling for comfort. I am lucky to have married a man who continues to push me to not dwell in my internal darkness, even when it feels my sorrow is on a continuous orbit around my mind. He never lets his smile fade, even as the doctors keep delivering disappointing news about my fragile and decaying life. He never lets his smile fade on days where my brain doesn't allow even a glimpse of sunshine to peak through. But most of all, he never lets that beautiful smile fade as the sound of my tears consume the night, as I lay hysterical over the fact I may not wake to the soothing sound of his voice, or at all.