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If you've already broken your 2024 New Year's resolutions, you probably can't fathom Kevin Fuller's feat of consistency: He has written an original poem to his wife every day for a decade-plus.
Kristin Rortvedt has saved each one of them, now totaling in the several thousands. The earliest were scrawled onto old McDonald's receipts, office scrap paper or on the back of a Groupon. These days Kevin simply emails them to Kristin's inbox.
His musings are sometimes vulnerable, sometimes flirty. One day it might be about his wife's beauty, true to the canon of love poetry. Another day it might contain grievances accusing their beloved 80-pound dog, Tove, of behaving like a jerk.
"A lot of them are break-your-heart beautiful and sweet. Some are absolutely hysterical limericks, some are haikus," Kristin said. "But all of them are this amazing, perfect reflection of who he is, how he shows his love for me, and how he shows up for other people. I get to have this physical reminder of that."
So, who is this modern-day Cyrano? Kevin, a videographer who works in corporate communications, seems a touch embarrassed by my quizzical interest. When I stop by the couple's split-level in Brooklyn Park to peruse the poems — a heap of them is scattered across the kitchen table — he's quick to offer a disclaimer: He hasn't gone back to read any of them since first penning them.
"Half of them are written poorly," he warns, "and half are not G-rated."
Kristin unfolds a few, as if she were cracking open fortune cookies. The missives are not dated, so some of the words stump her. What was happening in national politics for Kevin to write, "My old country returns like a wayward friend"? Why, in another poem, did Kevin reference mermaids and sirens?
As far as Kristin's all-time favorites — well, those seven scraps of paper, written in Kevin's distinctive all caps, are individually framed and hanging above their bed. Like this one:
Help me
For as strong
As I think I am
I cannot navigate
This rocky life
On my own
I need you most
When I act
Like I don't
The couple first met as co-workers at an electric utility company in New Mexico. Years later, they had their first kiss. The next day he brought her a cup of Starbucks coffee and tucked a poem into the sleeve. Neither of them foresaw that the ritual would continue daily for so many years.
Regarding his writing streak, Kevin says it doesn't feel like work. "It's not about the quality of the poem," he says. "For me, it's more of a routine to connect with her."
Romantics may doom themselves by believing that they must pull out all the stops for the grand gesture. But little things can make all the difference, especially if the giver does it consistently, says Porsche Gordin, a marriage and family therapist who has a practice in Little Canada.
"Reliability is so important," she says. "If you have the dependability of your partner saying, 'I'm going to be here no matter what — we're rocking, we're rolling,' that can change everything."
Gordin said it's rare for people to communicate with their life partners every day about their emotions and needs. With kids, work, devices and other stresses, we can be too distracted or busy to check in. We may not feel safe to be vulnerable. Or maybe we've been rejected when we've tried to connect. But by revealing what's going on in our lives, we invite our partners to have a conversation and reciprocate.
"What this story says to me is that if someone is sharing their heart with you, that's all that matters," Gordin says. "This way is so simple, but it's consistent. He's authentic, he's raw, he's emotional, and it makes it easy to trust him, I assume. And we want to be with someone we can trust."
The couple tied the knot in 2016 on a pontoon boat in Kristin's native Otter Tail County. It's the second marriage for both. Although Kristin has never reciprocated with a poem, Kevin is quick to point out that she shows her affection for him in a million other gestures. Her day job is directing community engagement for the charitable arm of the Minnesota Twins.
She's assured him he can stop his poetry streak at any time, but he keeps crafting words. One note simply says, "'Kristin, I'm sorry for falling in love with you 20 years too late."
Kevin still regrets that: He wishes they could have met earlier, so they could have 20 more years together. "Life goes by fast," he says. "I'm 54, and I feel like I'm 24 and I'm not."
Each of his poems is a freeze-frame, speaking to what was in his head in any given moment, from the time the couple sold their car to the death of his father, with whom Kevin had a complicated relationship. It was from his dad that Kevin learned to hide his feelings. It was through Kristin that he learned to shed the toughness.
"When I look at those poems from that time, I think it's a way for him to process what he's feeling," Kristin says, tearing up. "Sometimes it's romantic and inappropriate and sexy, but sometimes it's about processing life."
And a life together encompasses the groceries and the bills, the vacations and the setbacks, the seductions and the silliness. From a distance, the years can look like a giant blur, its details easily forgotten. Kevin's poems often aren't polished, and they certainly don't come with a hashtag. They privately document the magic and monotony of marriage.
Kevin says his past mistakes with relationships have made him a better person. That's why he writes.
"Things stall out when you don't put gas in the tank," he says. "I'm not going to do that again."
