Of the Magical and the Mundane

She is not only the pragmatist, she is the enchantress. From the organizing of paperwork, taxes, forms and receipts, to reminding me when a birthday is due, grounding flights of fancy that have no hope of touching sky, or reminding me what really matters to me with half a glance and that chuckle that only she can do, her good sense is a benefit worth my own weight in gold. Yet even as she props me up, making certain I am buckled in, and poking the flashlight of her curiosity into every corner before letting me ride, she manages to fire off in my core a set of fireworks, strobes, shotflingers, cascades and star-bursts, which I feel as bursts of heat, warm rockets arcing through me. How she can make a conversation about mundane drivel into a captivating dazzle that leaves me trying to memorize her? How is it possible that her interest in me is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen? What liquid magic exists in those soft brown eyes that grasps my throat and squeezes? And please, for the love of my sanity, how can this one soul’s approval hold my entire being in a thousand clutching grips?