M is for Mathew- my partner in crime- my youngest guy- my Tween. My born too soon to breathe on his own, yet born with an old man soul. 12 going on, hmm, 37 or so, just enough older than me to see me as silly. He’s taller than me, with much bigger feet. I don’t borrow his clothes, but I could if I asked. And yes, he’s given me permission to write about him today. He saw my prompt, and assumed I’d be doing so!
Mathew reads my poems, comments on the sadness of them, but understand why they are so. He knows more about WWII than anyone I’ve ever met, and I wish his Great-Grandfathers were still alive to talk to him about it. He loves when I read post-apocalyptic novels aloud, and we cried together when I became verklempt during The Hunger Games. His favorite food is broccoli and isn’t that bizarre?
What I love the most about Mat is his *don’t give a damn* and his keen, dry sense of humor. If ever I’m in the mountains and spy a boulder done up like a pig, Mat is the one to pop out of the car with me, dodge traffic, and climb up on that pig for a picture. So glad to be living life with this guy, my guy, my Mathew.