My dearest G had his own pink shirt. If I close my eyes right this very moment, I can remember him, standing in my classroom, talking to me, hands on hip, wearing that pink shirt. Or sitting across from me in the cafeteria sharing jokes and stories during lunch duty. Or as he asked me out on our very first date. I remember every possible image of that moment, from the way he leaned back in his chair, the way he looked me directly in my eyes, the way the lights played off his hair, and yes, that pink shirt. I remember feeling my heart not go pitter-patter, but more along the lines of thud-thud thunk as I began the tumbling completely head-over-heels for this man. His pink shirt wasn't exactly the singular reason I fell completely, totally, madly in love with G...no, it was just a part of it. There was something about that red hair of his, those arms, the way he thinks and challenges me to be better all the time. The way he is such a wonderful father. Oh, I could go on and on, but the pink shirt was a part of it. Ree, you are right, it does take the right sort of man to wear a pink shirt. And I adore mine in his so very much.
