[title subtitle=”WORDS Sarah Phillips-Burger
IMAGE Gajus/Shutterstock”][/title]
My Love,
As I write this, you are sleeping. Your eyes are fluttering, and your lips separate just a sliver with each breath that leaves your body. Your hands grasp the lavender blanket that you picked out, pulling it closer to you, bringing you warmth. I wonder if you are dreaming, and if so, when you wake, will you tell me about your dream like you have done so many times before? Will you let me glimpse your subconscious as you roll it all around, like a child with a newfound treasure, searching for hidden meaning?
All of my dreams now are of you and our life together. Much like our old home movies, one scene switches to the next, all in sequential order. I wonder, which reel will my mind pick for me tonight? Will it be the night I met you?
I saw you there, in the low lights, the band playing, you smiling while people whirled around you. Your hazel eyes caught mine and didn’t let go. You marched right over, offering your hand and said, “Let’s dance.” When I reached out to you, I knew that I was already in love. I’ve never seen someone who could laugh so much. You have always been so full of life. You and I danced all night, your brown hair bouncing in time with the music, your white dress covered in tiny red roses swaying against your legs when we held each other tight.
I knew that night, that every moment of my life had led me to you. I could never get enough of what it felt like being in your presence. We spent every moment we could together the next six months until I proudly walked out of the courthouse with you, as rice rained on our heads, my hand holding yours, you laughing all the way to the car. Oh, how happy we both were. And oh, what a life we planned on living.
Those first few years we relished each other, taking turns picking weekend excursions, exploring each other and the world. I’ll never forget driving down to the Alabama shore just so that you could touch the ocean for the first time. We spent several hours walking the shoreline, picking up seashells while the wind whipped our hair and the cool frothy waves tickled our toes. You stood for the longest time facing the horizon and watching the earth breathe until I wrapped my arms around you. It was then that you turned to me and told me you were pregnant with our first child.
When I saw Abigail in your arms for the first time, I thought my heart would explode. There you were, exhausted, your hair wet with sweat, tears streaming down your face as you gazed upon her. Your finger stroked her cheek and then you kissed her tiny nose. Never before had I seen anything more beautiful. I crept closer, not wanting to interrupt your introduction when she yawned and you smiled up at me. “Here’s Daddy,” you said when you placed her in my arms. I was captivated by her and completely in awe of you. You brought into this world, into our lives, the most perfect baby I had ever seen.
Our lives were forever changed in ways we could not yet fathom. Our home, which was already full of our belongings, now overflowed with baby things: bottles and diapers, clothes and toys. Sleeping and eating schedules were created, cries were decoded. All seemed well with our new baby.
But it seemed you were not thriving. Tears and exhaustion replaced your joyful nature. The doctors called it ‘baby blues’ back then. I felt so helpless. When winter turned to spring you started walking. Every day you walked for miles at a time. “I can’t just sit here feeling sorry for myself,” you said, “I have to move forward.” You kept walking long after your exuberance returned.
A few more years went by and I received raises at my job, so we found a new, bigger house to fit our growing family, complete with a white picket fence. You planted a garden and I hung a tire swing on the big oak out front. We taught Abigail to ride a bike, and not too long after, had our second daughter, Charlotte. The doctors allowed me to stay in the room to witness it all this time and as you will recall, I nearly passed out. I was simply overcome with the ardent magic of it all. You named her after my mother.
We became comfortable as we watched our daughters grow, and I thought that everything about our life was complete. Our home overflowed with love. Anything we needed, I was able to provide. But then the plant closed. And, just like that, my sense of security vanished. I worried all the time. How could I take care of the three of you without a job?
I searched for work every day, but so did everyone else who was newly unemployed. I came up empty. I could feel everything slipping away and my worry turned to anger. So, I drank. I drank too much. Month after month went by. “You’ll find something,” and “you’ll get back on your feet,” you told me. But I couldn’t. I felt frozen.
You started watching children in our home to help pay the bills. “It’s just until you get something,” you said. Still, nothing came. Tiny feet ran through our home again, sometimes five sets at a time. You were brilliant with them, as you were with our own. You carried the weight for both of us at that time.
I found you crying once in the kitchen when I came home late from the bar. “This isn’t who you are,” you said.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I rebutted.
“Then, go find out.”
You went to bed, and I sat in the living room to sulk. On a table next to the sofa was your favorite book, a collection of poems. Looking at it, I could not once remember you turning the pages. I sat down my glass and picked up the book, letting the pages fall away from the tasseled bookmark and began to read a poem about marriage.
Most like an arch—an entrance which upholds and shores the stone-crush up in the air like lace… Most like an arch—two weaknesses that lean into a strength. Two fallings become firm…World as it is, what’s strong and separate falters. All I do at piling stone on stone apart from you is roofless and around nothing. Till we kiss.
Tears streaming down my face, I decided right then that I would no longer try to face this alone. I knew who I was, the man who you married, and I would never again forget that. Six months later, I opened the hardware store. Within a year, we were back on our feet again. We moved forward, together.
When our daughters left the nest, we settled into a new pattern. Quiet rituals shared by us with a plethora of memories to relive, and inside jokes to tell. We enjoyed the smallest things. I can still picture you bundled up on the front porch, your head tilted up, watching the meteor shower. The moon sat low behind you, shaped like the smile of the Cheshire Cat, shining its light on you while your eyes searched the clear skies, patiently waiting. You have always loved making wishes on falling stars. But what did you wish for? You’d never tell. If you told me, I would have tried my best to grant them all.
One night you came to me, your face ashen, your hands trembling. You found a lump. “We will get through this together,” I told you. It was during your treatment that I once again witnessed your strength. The medicine used to kill the thing inside you also killed everything else. But you still made cookies with our grandbabies. We still went on long walks together, your hand in mine. You still smiled and laughed and fought as hard as you could, for as long as you could.
Your nurse just came in and checked on you. She said it won’t be long now. Here in this bed, possibly while you are dreaming, you will slip away. And I am certain that without you, as the poem says, I will be no more than upright and unset.
Thank you, my love, for our life lived together. For taking my hand that first night, and every night since. One day, I will meet you there in our dreams, and you can tell me all that you wished for.
Love,
Me
