Ode for Arnaud

For your 57th, my favourite jeweller,
You’re still that one-man band, Arnaud.
An alchemist who turns raw gold into poetry,
Gemstones into belly laughs (yours, usually),
And our thirty-five years into an eternity, one that still feels like a stolen weekend.

You were born with a pencil in one hand and a book in the other.
One to sketch jewels as bold as Calatrava’s bridges,
The other to feed your soul with jazz, snow-capped mountains (as unpredictable as you),
And Beetles that smell of petrol and adventure.

You’re the man who whispers to diamonds like others whisper to horses.
A 20K runner who sprints for good causes,
A diver who surfaces with seashells, crustaceans,
And jokes that’d make a barnacle blush.
You collect cars like others collect stamps,
Though yours have more horsepower than a stampede of kittens,
And your Beetle is as loyal as Hubert and Tabatha,
Which is to say, it occasionally leaves you stranded in a field.

And me?
I’m the stowaway on all your adventures.
Never quite sure if we’re off to Knokke
Or some Dotremont exhibition,
Where you’ll explain (for the umpteenth time) why his logograms are strokes of genius,
Unrecognised, but genius nonetheless.

You’re the father who taught our kids that jewellery,
Like life,
Needs polishing, repairing, and sometimes breaks.
But it’s always better with a generous dash of madness.

You’re my husband, my partner in crime.
The one who makes me laugh when the sky’s grey,
Surprises me when I think I’ve seen it all,
And after three decades, still makes me want to dance in holey pyjamas to Joe Jackson at 3am.

So today, this ode is for you:
A creation of words, slightly battered, a tad shiny,
Fragile, yet indestructible, and perfect in its imperfections.
Because in the end, Arnaud Wittmann,
You’re the most precious work of art in my workshop.

Happy birthday, my love. May
this year be as dazzling as a diamond in midday sun,
As honest as the line of your pencil,
And as full of twists as your most glorious adventures.

Tania