Sunday, January 30, 2011

I wept with my face in your nightshirt.

I think the beauty is in the details. The quiet moments. The small gestures. I find it harder and harder not to write my husband's name here. In my AA confessional a few post back I did write it, because in my head I don't call him X. I wrote and when I realized what I had done I sat there horrified, as if anyone out there that read this saw it too and knows.

I complain a lot about the tight quarters in which we live, but to be honest all my favorite moments are in close proximity to him. The glow of his eyes in the bunk light, the beer on his breath and the smoke mixed with hair spray in his hair. The counter of a 100 different dressing rooms sitting there like a child watching their parent dress for a date. The way he will hold my hand with his left hand an place his right hand on my inner wrist when we walk, as if he knows he has to use both hands to keep me here. And in that knowing he also knows that we are both fragile and scared. I'll forever let him cling to me.

Last night he took me in his arms backstage. Put one hand on the small of my back and danced with me. Slowly and longingly dancing to the sound of the load in. Cases clanked and workers stomped on the stage a few feet away, but in that moment we were love. I wanted to possess the simple gesture forever. I wanted to lock myself up in those arms, that hair those breaths. I wanted to take him far away from there. He pulled back and smiled at me. I tried to smile back. Adorable.

No comments:

Post a Comment