Artists · Musings · Small Joys · Treasure

Something Like a Perfect Day

I am pleased to discover that there is a pot of coffee made, and beside it a cup sitting empty, ready for me to pour my own.  It may seem rude that it is not poured for me yet, but since my arrival was not assured at any specific time, it actually shows sense, it will be warm still when I put it in the cup myself.  When I have finished two cups we leave and go to the Regional Market, buying rolls for our lunch, baklava, dragon fruit and a molasses cookie for me, a brownie for him.  At some point he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a jack-knife, he cannot know that that simple tool residing in his pocket is like a strange almost metaphysical thing, it draws me in and leaves me feeling right in my place.  It is so hot but he has of course brought water and iced tea and a ginger beer for me, all sitting in a cooler in the trunk.  We go to an Antique Festival, wandering around half the show before going back to the car to sit under the shade of a Cottonwood Tree and eat our lunch.  I tease him, without mercy, and he takes it, laughing and telling me to be quiet all at the same time.  I worry he cannot take me as I am, I tell him, as I point out a sandpiper on the shore of the river, I don’t want to give you all of me because I am afraid I will scare you away.  I don’t think so, he says, I don’t scare easily.

We stop by my house to get dry clothes, it is so hot I have sweat through my cotton capris, my tank shirt and my underclothes.  And then go to swim in the pool at his aunt’s house, after we are both hungry and eat sandwiches and leftover salad, and blueberries with vanilla almond milk.  He holds me close to him as we watch a movie, and I fall asleep in his arms, he rests his chin on my head and he falls asleep too.

I realize I have to stop now and maybe not blog anymore, because it is too much to share, it seems inappropriate.  But at the same time, I want it to be known, how far my heart has come in three years.   We sometimes say that people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps and move on already, but the heart is not a thing to be commanded, for if it was I would have left behind my heartbreak and sorrow a day after I was left.  If the mind were a thing to be whipped into submission, I would have beaten my mind to death with self criticism and wondering why.  I dream of him, his eyes wide open, telling me without blinking that he has not missed me at all.  You are cruel I say to the dream, callow, harsh and mean, and I say angry now, what about this one you “didn’t” leave me for?  Can you honestly say that is true, and he continues to lie.  I do not wake though and that dream hazily falls away as the night passes by moment to moment.  Dr. Cross said, everyone comes in their own time to heal, no one can tell you when it is the right time to be better, Morgan tells me, they say it takes one year to three to get over it.  One year to three and so I am nearly done.

But as I see the jack-knife flip open, and as I taste the last beer shared, and as I savor the coffee cup on the counter and as I feel the kisses on my sunburned back and as I hear the laughter as I bust chops, and as I turn and find his eyes on me, telling me without a word that he wants me to move closer to him, I find that I am done, wholly and completely.  This journey which seemed so difficult, and felt so impossible, suddenly feels so strongly like God’s hand and purpose that I cannot shake being thankful.  I put my hands over my face as the sunlight sparkles on the pool, and I say thank you God.  I turn to him and pat his hand and say thank you God.  I rest my head weary on my own pillow, alone in my bed, and I say thank you God.

What are you going to do with me? he asks, keep you. I say, and what are you going to do with me?  keep you. he says.

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