Thursday, February 14, 2013

A Love Letter

It doesn’t matter how much time has passed.   Every day, I look at you, and I can’t quite believe that you’re here.   That we’re here.

I know I can say to you, do you remember . . .?   And chances are, you’re already nodding.

I am always astonished to open the door and find you waiting for me.   I think it is nothing short of miraculous that I get to go to bed with you every night, that I get to fall asleep in your arms, that I can hold you as much as I want—which, incidentally, is never enough.   Then, in the morning, I can’t believe that I get to wake up to your smile.

Do you remember the ice storm, how we played cards by candlelight on the living room floor?   Going up to my grandmother’s house to take her batteries.   She didn’t need groceries because if there’s one good thing about an ice storm, it’s no lack of refrigeration.

I will never grow accustomed to the things you say, the funny and insightful things.  It’s not easy to make me laugh, but somehow you always manage, and the way you always make me think, because you wouldn't be satisfied with a less-than-creative answer.

Do you remember how you taught me how to drive?   I was afraid at first because I’d already borne witness to too much wreckage.   But at the same time, I scrap together all the good memories and wrap you up in them, because I want you to share my sunflowers and my saffron fields, the taste of olives straight off the branch, and an iridescent-bodied crab burying itself in the sands of Hunting Island.

And what about you and your wreckage?   I reversed the order a bit, bringing you back from the dead before the reassembly.   But it’s better this way: you get a say in the mosaic.   Still, I know your body better than I know my own, your double joints, the texture of your scalp.   You’ve bled and sweated and sneezed on me.   I know you remember walking on your hands that time while wearing a tux, that night in a Motel 6, and your first job interview in a second-hand suit.

Your scent nourishes me as much as the bread you knead for us.   I could live in it, and in you, and I do.

I love walking out the door with you in the morning, how every touch is shaped by perfect trust.   I want you to feel wanted and appreciated, because that’s how you make me feel.   In a world of such uncertainty, I can manage, because I know that I made one good decision.   In a lifetime of failures, I will always know that I succeeded at something.  

And that’s you.

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