Sacrifice yourself and let me have what's left.
There were wild bunny tracks all over the lawn this morning, defined in a thick white layer of new fallen snow. They're happy spring is here too, and they probably don't enjoy this most recent blizzard, one that saw Ben fly into the city with his knuckles most likely white in their deathgrip on his armrests. He said the flight was awful but he didn't care because he was home and because he was with me.
Is it so bad that when I see him I get goosebumps all over? All that and still he knows he's been handed the box of cookies with mere crumbled bits in the bottom. What was left. The part no one wanted. His favorite part. He has me all to himself now. Sometimes I can look at him and smile and then burst into tears and he knows why and it's okay and someday I won't do that, hopefully.
I bet he hopes that a little more often than he says he does.
Sometimes I wish I had been able to give him everything right off the bat. Instead of getting a survivor, weakened and broken and still vaguely unsteady, that he could have had Bridget when he met Bridget. New and fresh and happy and young and full of promise, plans and 'good' nervous tension.
The bad tension drains away when he touches me.
The unsteadiness evaporates when I am tucked into his arms.
The broken parts heal with his words or his touch.
He is a patient man. Whenever I bring up memories or disparaging things to talk about he steers the subject to hopeful things or funny things. Whenever I feel like I can't quite get my hands to stop or my mouth to cooperate he holds them or kisses me as if he can take some of it away or at least kill the bad stuff with a new moment, a good moment.
Since he came home last night he's been very close by. I won't even tell you how close he is right now. I just poked him, did you see that? I barely had to move. He's smiled more in the past twelve hours than he did when I joined him for the last epic visit on the road. He's as relaxed as I have ever seen him. Doesn't argue, even when I put the jam knife in the peanut butter to provoke him, which is usually cause for cries of Fail! and repetition of why messing the two up is bad and it's okay if it's for a peanut butter and jam sandwich but what if I'm having jam on a crumpet? Or peanut butter and banana and you just blended it all, messy girl. What am I supposed to do now?
Only he's usually kidding and today he didn't even care. And I didn't care when he fell asleep ON my hair instead of pulling it up out of the way like he usually does when we go to sleep. It's like we're just ourselves and there's nothing that can kill the mood.
Nothing.
I just pinched him to make sure and he grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a kiss and repeated what I just wrote. Nothing can kill this mood, little bee.
I didn't think he was watching that closely, but he was, with his customary white-knuckle approach. Holding tight in case of turbulence. Only the skies have cleared and all I see is the sun.
