kindredSwell

We met early one morning in 2004.

By the end of the practice we both knew there would be something.

I remember first noticing his hands, his skill, his humour, and then his generosity. His generosity drew me deep and draws me deeper each year. His hands rested on me for many hours until the time was right. He said he knew I loved him because I finally looked him in the eye. When I write these words, tears well, because I know he was right.

He has forever been my place to fall.

Often, far too often, I wonder if he has found happiness; if he feels as literally fortified and protected by having me in his life as I do with him in mine. But then I hear him downstairs, laughing out loud. But then every morning he greets me with such love (it still surprises me). And I realize that it is only because of my shortcomings that I wonder this. I think he has found such easy peace in simply making sure his girls have smiles. It is humbling to watch. If I am honest, I don’t know if I am capable of the same. He perpetually gives.

Often, far too often, I worry that I leave him wanting. When pulled in all the directions I seek, I’m often too thin and spent by the end. At the end of a day or shift or season or month, I feel a greyed out image of what was previously there. To experience this from inside is one thing, but to observe it must be something else altogether. The patience required must qualify one for sainthood; the test of confidence for knighthood. Yet, we are good together in all the ways that lovers should be. Never has a man had the bravery nor confidence to satisfy me like he always does. I sit here wanting him now and can’t imaging giving in to anyone else.

When our eldest turned eleven last month, we had been formally married for nine years. From our wedding day there is a picture, his one hand holding mine, his other comforting her. Both of us leaning on him. Those hands, once again.

This is the type of love that scares you because you wonder if you are worthy, you wonder what happens if it is snatched away, you try daily to try to return it but find yourself falling short. I hope my girls find this love. But most importantly, I hope you, my love, feel this love.

The bed seemed to be in the middle of the room, sort of. Over-sized, white and sky blue sheets, maybe hints of grey. The sheets were tousled but not messy. Obviously used, enjoyed. I had been there.

The room was encased into a creative’s lair. The lighting dim. The walls were lined with oft handled books, row after row rose up around the bed like elegant, protective petals shielding their treasure from only those meant to reach it. Spines well worn, muted colours, varying shapes; I couldn’t see their titles but I could imagine them. You didn’t have to have read them all to feel what they gave.

To one side there was a kitchen, it too was well used. Dishes from the last meal hadn’t quite been done yet; something else had pulled their attention. Wine glasses stood empty, a few drops still lazing at their bottoms, the marks of lips still there.

There was utter quiet but such an energy. The energy at it’s most base, was dark. Shame lingered in the air but it’s origin was elusive. Searching, wanting, expanding, and next were also there. It was a place I wanted to be but worried about why. So I ultimately left, but now I want to go back.