Always Read Free Page A

your mouth like warm air in winter. Or Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. That’s a name that forces one to say it slowly because one’s lips actually kiss themselves when they form the words. She didn’t have a name. She had a poem.
    On the other hand, mine just does not do it for me. Henry’s brother told him before our first campaign that my name would sound better if I went by Leslie instead of Yvette. He thought that Yvette sounded too ethnic, which is a code word for black. So I went with it. Now even my husband calls me Leslie.
    Henry and I are the same age, and he is the validation that there is a Supreme Being, and that She loves me beyond compare. I know this because no other entity could bring so much happiness to someone like me and I know the sole reason She created me was to love Henry.
    When I think of the good times we’ve shared I feel closer to heaven than earth, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not a “stand by your man whatever the reason” type of woman, but I can say that I have been blessed with him . . . and Henry was definitely blessed with me.
    Henry’s eyes are as dark as sapphires and nearly as unforgettable. All it takes is a little sunlight to make him squint, which does not make for the best photographs, but when you see them clearly, it’s hard to look away.
    The man has never, at forty-seven, had a single gray hair. A producer for Prime Time Live in a preproduction meeting asked him to come clean and tell him what he did to his hair. When he was asked that question, I could see Henry get a little agitated. This same producer asked the othercandidates about their stance on China or campaign finance. When he got to us, he asked Henry about hair dye and why he, like Oprah, Bill Cosby, and Colin Powell, was considered to be colorless .
    On the other hand, my hair has been graying slowly since I turned thirty. I did not have a strand of gray hair until the morning of my thirtieth birthday. I looked into the mirror that day and started howling. It was not me looking back. It was Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son , in the flesh. Teddy, which is my pet name for Henry, ran down the hallway into the bathroom thinking I’d hurt myself. When he saw the three strands I’d just plucked, he didn’t laugh, as I am sure some men would have. He didn’t patronize me by saying there were only three strands. He understood. He’s always like that, although at times it’s not readily apparent. Teddy wrapped both his arms around me like a first-time mother holding her newborn, rested his chin on my head as we rocked slowly to unheard music, and said, “I wish you could see you through my eyes.”
    And then, lowering his voice, Teddy said, “I once heard that angels congregate on the shores of the ocean at sunrise. And that the moment is so beautiful, they could actually hear music in the rising of the sun. Leslie, even if I were one day able to witness such a moment, I know it could never compare to the beauty I’ve found in you.” And then he told me, with his voice as soft as church music and just as emotional, to look at myself in the mirror. As I opened my eyes, for the life of me, all I could see was him. But it seems since the day we met, all I’ve ever seen was him.
    A friend heard me quietly call him Teddy, which is something I rarely do in front of others, and asked me why. Because, I told her, they could have Henry. Henry belonged to the world, but Teddy was all mine.
    My calling him Teddy is a curse in a way. I gave him the name because he reminded me of a big, cuddly teddy bear. When he ran for president it got leaked on the Internet that I called him Teddy and he received hundreds of teddy bears from women around the world. As a result, the teddy bear became our unofficial campaign mascot, which he initiallyfelt trivialized the seriousness of his efforts, but I think he soon grew fond of it.
    I must admit, and I would