because a Reverend can't be wrong.
There are places we go, deep in the woods, in a song, in our minds.
The movement of arms and the pulling of shirt halts the dream.
Reality snaps back in place: A soft smile under dark glasses.
A closed fist and a deep breath bring peace again. Temporarily.
Count to 10. Suddenly it almost didn’t happen.
Almost.
She’s wearing sandals and her toes are painted light blue. The sun catches her golden hair making it radiate. She’s obviously searching for something.
I take a deep breath and stop her. I’m not from here either, but, maybe I can I help you find something? “Well, I was just looking for a little cafe to sit and have a cup of coffee.” I am too, shall we look together? We laugh at the idea, our arms folded awkwardly, our eyes searching. Then we walk down the street together, laughing and talking.
I hold the door open for her. She walks in first. It’s nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but it’s ours. Our first house. Completely ours. We laugh at the sheer possibilities and end up laying side by side in a pile of undress in the middle of the living room floor, the door still open to the hallway. I get up to use the rest room.
As I enter the living room I notice she looks even more beautiful today than yesterday. Has she done something different? Is it my love for her, ever increasing? Is it our unborn child inside her? Does it even matter? I sit next to her on the couch, kiss her growing belly, and sigh a sigh of happiness and content. We sit for a moment hand in hand, words unspoken, before she heads off into the kitchen.
“Supper’s ready!” she calls out. She’s made an early dinner for just the two. Our two children still at home are off doing other things this evening. The table is decorated, candles are lit, wine is poured, and she looks as incredible to me as she did the day I met her on the street in New York City. We eat while talking about our day and playing footsie under the table. Even after all these years, her smile can still bring that burn to my chest. I clear the table after dinner as she goes to get herself ready. We’re supposed to meet my daughter and her husband later that evening. They’ve got some news for us.
I walk into the living room full of Christmas gifts. All of the grandchildren stare at me with hungry, glistening eyes knowing that Christmas doesn’t start until I begin handing out the gifts. So, of course, I take my time watching them squirm with excitement and burst with protest. We have a wonderful dinner that evening. No matter how old we get, it’s the one ritual we simply won’t give up. I love having all of them under my roof all at once. I feel complete. As the last of the family heads home I put on my coat and decide to go for a quick stroll in the evening light.
I walk down the street remember each event of my life as though it had only just occurred. Each moment leading to the next. I am so fortunate. I am so happy. I am so loved. I try to imagine it any other way and it simply doesn’t work. I make my way around the corner and begin walking along all the shops, closed for the day, when I spot another person walking toward me.
She’s wearing sandals and her toes are painted light blue. The sun catches her golden hair making it radiate. She’s obviously searching for something.
As a tourist, I’m sure I can’t help her find what she’s looking for in a place as large as New York City. I pass her with a smile on my face considering the possibilities and then wander into a cafe alone for a cup of coffee.
You were proper. Every strand of hair pulled back neatly. The bun placed perfectly at the top center of your head. Two very intentional tendrils framed your face — restrained and appropriate. Makeup applied in such a fashion that it was hard to tell it was even there. The only give away: your bright cheeks with their perfect red circles of youth. But maybe they were natural, it’s hard to tell. Your thin, blue, silk dress with an oriental pattern in a lighter shade of blue hung perfectly on your small shoulders. Unmoving, as though made to rest in just that very spot on just this very frame. Your arms gracefully folded about your small waist — hovering over your capable hips. Hips not too narrow and not too wide. Just enough to hint at the children you would some day mother. Temperate and innocent. The dress ended conservatively below your knees. Your shoes were black and attractive, yet sensible and adult. As you walked the outline of your thick muscled legs was visible with each advance; The legs of a gymnast, perhaps. As you passed me I noticed, hidden under so many perfect, calculated layers, the shape of your small, left breast — unsupported and bouncing tightly with each quick, short, deliberate step.