It's foggy this morning. Chilly and dim. Caleb has lit a fire and dressed me in his thermal waffleknit t-shirt. He's brought up black coffee and chocolate croissants and we're having breakfast in bed, a weekend on a Friday. I am sleepy but today nothing hurts. I'll call it even, bigger because the odds are small.
I tried to give him grace and in turn he offered himself up for sacrifice. And I still sit here in surprise that it worked, that he actually got up, went downstairs and made breakfast instead of picking up a phone and having a stranger do it while he took all the credit and suddenly instead of making an effort to own me, he's making one to take care of me, one that doesn't involve wielding his money as a weapon or his wealth as a crutch. He's trying out life on his own two feet finally, a little humility, a lot of slow moves.
Here. He takes my cup and puts it on the table and returns to roll up the cuffs on his shirt. It's huge.
Beautiful, he breathes. Slow.
Slow.
Slow.
Thanks, mate. Lochlan reaches over me and takes the croissant off Caleb's plate, eating it in two bites. I was hoping you'd notice.
I tried to give him grace and in turn he offered himself up for sacrifice. And I still sit here in surprise that it worked, that he actually got up, went downstairs and made breakfast instead of picking up a phone and having a stranger do it while he took all the credit and suddenly instead of making an effort to own me, he's making one to take care of me, one that doesn't involve wielding his money as a weapon or his wealth as a crutch. He's trying out life on his own two feet finally, a little humility, a lot of slow moves.
Here. He takes my cup and puts it on the table and returns to roll up the cuffs on his shirt. It's huge.
Beautiful, he breathes. Slow.
Slow.
Slow.
Thanks, mate. Lochlan reaches over me and takes the croissant off Caleb's plate, eating it in two bites. I was hoping you'd notice.