Gratitude
How prim, how proper.
With the click of her boots, umbrella under arm, Mary Poppins would not allow anything other than perfection. People saw her the way she wanted them to and she expected nothing less. For that, she was grateful.
Bert, on the other hand, was thankful for second Tuesdays, for the day the wind went East. That slightest whisper in the breeze that told him his wait had been worth it.
But he wished he could share what he was most thankful for.
That click of the front door, the thrill of knowing he was no longer alone, the way they clung to each other as if it were the first reunion. And the last.
She would tell him she loved him and he wasted no time telling her he loved her too.
Yet, what he was most thankful for was the day after her return. When he snuck back into his room, breakfast tray in hand, and caught a glimpse of the waves of brown across his pillow. The way she snored lightly and how her arm reached out to his side of the bed, even when he wasn't there.
Bert couldn't have asked for a better wife. Each second with her was precious, as precious as she was, and he could never ask her to be anything but prim and proper. As long as he was the only man to see her otherwise.