January 27, 2015

To Love You.

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I haven’t thought much about what it would be like to love you.

Except that I would call you Baby and you would call me Love and I would be yours and you would be mine. And some nights after making love, I would fall asleep in the crook of your arm while you read to us from a book of poetry or prose.

I haven’t thought much about how we’d spend our days, except that I’d make us coffee while you showered and you’d warm my car while I dressed. Later at work, you’d find little notes tucked into your lunch bag and you’d bring home a bunch of daffodils. I would meet you with an embrace at the door and breathe you in, along with the scent of your day and your walk home.

The tea kettle would be softly humming on the stove and you’d tell me about your day and your ideas while we drank tea and made dinner together, artfully moving around the tiny kitchen. After dinner you’d write at your little desk and I’d read in my chair, stopping when you asked me to listen to the piece you’d just finished.

I’d smile and tell you that you were brilliant and you would flush and return to your work.

I would kiss your head and tell you goodnight and leave you to do your big thinking. And later when I awoke because your side of the bed was still cold, I’d find you asleep at your desk. I’d smile and drink you in completely, knowing you wouldn’t allow this if your eyes were open and my heart would be full with the weight of you there—your cheek crumpled on your elbow and just how perfect you are.

I’d gently remove your glasses and you’d stir and open your eyes. I would say “Baby, it’s late, will you come to bed with me?” You’ll agree, too tired to continue working, and I’ll get your side of the bed warm for you while you undress. I’ll curl into you and you’ll pull me close in a tangle of arms and legs. In your embrace there is no deeper intimacy; there are no walls, no boundaries and no words.

Occasionally we’ll go out with friends and I’ll wear your favorite dress and you’ll wear the jeans and sweater I love so much and all night long, no matter the company or conversation, I won’t take my eyes off of you.

I know how that look affects you.

At some point, we might need to excuse ourselves to a quiet place and see to a need that won’t keep until we get home. Once home, we’ll see to it again as you tenderly remove me from your favorite dress and I remove you from my favorite sweater.

I’ll be stubborn sometimes and you’ll be patient. Sometimes we’ll quarrel, but you’ll never stay mad at me for long, and oh, how I’ll love making up with you.

You’ll always hold the door open for me, not just some of the time, and I’ll buy all of your favorite things at the grocery store. We’ll go for evening walks and you’ll stand between me and the passing cars.

And when you are having a bad day, I’ll put you in the car and we’ll drive to your secret place at the ocean. We’ll lie on a blanket in silence, staring out into the waves until you are renewed. And when I am having a bad day, you’ll turn up the music and pull me into you, spinning me around and around the room until we erupt into a dizzy mass of giggles.

And when you are sick, I’ll make you soup and stroke your hair while we watch your favorite movies. And when I am sick, you’ll draw me a bath and kiss my forehead when you put me to bed.

I haven’t thought about the ways I’ll find to touch you often or how your hand will find its place on my knee while driving, or out to dinner with friends. And when we walk, my arm or fingers will interlace with your arm or fingers.

When someone tells a story about me, you will smile and say, “that’s my girl” and everyone will comment about the way my eyes light up when I speak of you. I will trust you with the secrets I keep in the deepest parts of me and I will keep yours locked in the same safe place.

When the world closes in and you need to unplug and retreat to your cabin for a few days, you will find the things I’d secretly placed there for you, to make you comfortable and remind you how very much I love you—all the hours of all the days of my life.

I haven’t thought much about how I have loved my last name all of these years or how losing it would matter little if you offered me yours. On the day of our wedding, quiet and in the woods, I would tell you all of the ways I have and will love you and you’ll wipe the tears from my cheeks when you tell me the ways you have and will love me.

Or the children we might have and the way you’d hold my hand in the moments before we meet them for the first time. And later, the way you’d hold our child on your hip while you make us Sunday breakfast and how I didn’t know the sight of the two of you could possibly make me love you more, but somehow it does.

Years later, when our skin is wrinkled and our adventures have been many, we’d sit together and remember our love story. I’d help your aging mind with the missing details and you’d help me with my cup of tea when Parkinson’s grip has a hold of my hands.

And when my heart gives its final beat to this well-lived life, I won’t be scared because my fingers will still be interlaced with your fingers and there is no safer place than the hollow under your chin. I will go gently on the whisper of your kiss, content in a life spent loving you.

I dare say it would be something to love you—but then, I haven’t given it much thought.