In her arms I am a punctuation mark used in just the right way, so satisfying, the fitting into the shapes of our stories, long, fluid sentences, parenthetical, unspoken limbs nestled like words between commas and semicolons and sometimes, a series of exclamation points, the way a child uses them, how one is not enough. In her arms when I fall asleep I am not air traffic controller or mama or petite or aging or agitated but calm, floating and solid both; I push against her skin to make sure she’s there and my breath steadies and lengthens and then it is morning and the alarm is beeping, the alarm that I ignore and delay ten minutes at a time while another half hour drifts by, until one of us has to pee badly enough to move. And then the coffee is poured and delivered to bed, the day begins together here, and I remember, I always remember, not to forget the many, many mornings apart. On weekdays, I shower, and drop my damp towel on the bed, choosing clothing for the day as she makes her lists and watches me, and I want to stay, stay close, stay nearby, stay within touching or talking distance all day, not because there is always something to say but because there is a safety here, or maybe it’s more like belonging. I belong here, at her side, each of us full and contained and sometimes spilling and just being able to meet eyes and have so many wordless conversations that hold whole worlds of what we know is true, and good, and painful, and necessary, and exciting, and mundane. All of it, all of this is who I am with her. I am quite simply myself, and she not only accepts me but wants me, my storms and meltdowns and my boring and my slow transformation from self-improvement to expansion and contraction and finally, just being, being however and whoever I am or want to be. It’s freedom. And when I get up and when I lie down and when I move about through the many machinations of the day, I want not to squander a single moment of her love.
Week One, Day Five of Our Word: The Collective Guide to Intuitive Writing