For weeks I've been resolved and NOW standing here bent over these pickles, yards from the back door of HIS house, feet caked in mud, ankles, hands, and forearms itching, back aching, green slime tatooed up to my wrists, loathing the day I met him and you whisper "How can you love him?". Well I'll tell you what the hell it isn't! It isn't butchering his half of the chickens! It isn't feeding that son of a *%&%)#@ one single calorie! It isn't going out of my way to not be offensive to him even though I know he is being cold as ice to five and six year old kids and my wife who never did or said anything to remotely offend him. It isn't not kicking his sorry ass for all the work we've done together and then having him trip out and dump it all like it just doesn't exist anymore? What? It is? Its all that? Its all that and more? For what? What do I get out of it?
A cross? I get a friggin cross? Oh yeah, and those sunsets. Mmm Hmmm, there have been some lovely ones. I get a pulse? One more day to wake up to my beautiful wife? Okay, deal. I'm in. I'll clean the friggin chickens, all of them, and I know you, you'll probably bring me to tears while I do it and somehow, through the gore and the mess, you'll show me something beautiful and profound and I'll go about crying your name and dancing like a child in a sprinkler or some other totally uncool thing with chicken guts all over me. Somehow I'm really glad to have met him...and you.