i sit here, waiting for you to call,
because tonight you headed out, late
because fire season
because there are always things to talk over
as we do our best to parent our children well,
to be responsible,
to nurture our relationship,
to be good stewards of all that we are given
i meant to share supper with you,
to share tucking our kiddos in with you,
to share kisses with you,
to share a conversation with you,
to share our bed with you,
but
two hours ago
your headlights in the driveway
a flurry of
pouring coffee
packing groceries
grabbing a pair of pants
petting the dog
hugging the kids
i followed you out the door
placed bags in the truck
we shared a kiss
a hug
an embrace that lasted
{i didn't want to let go}
{i don't think that you did, either}
you pressed the sides of my ribcage with your strong hands,
wrapped your fingers tight,
let go
then pressed my waist
and i pressed one last kiss to your lips
i said i'm glad you can go away from here, but not glad you have to go away from me
i watched you climb into the truck
closed your door
and watched your headlights recede into the darkness
the house creaks, the windows make strange popping sounds, and it occurs to me that the wind has quickened
my mind sometimes starts to wander to thoughts of if it were just you and me . . .
but it's not.
and i'm so glad it isn't.
and in just six years it will be.
two-thirds of the time we get with them is already in the past
one-third more
then it will be just you and me
and i will do things differently than i do now
and i will miss them
but i will be so proud of them
and i will go to them and watch their performances and ceremonies
and i will have lunch with them
and buy them bed sheets and groceries and toilet paper
and i will watch their eyes shine as they tell me all about what it is that they are doing their best at
and then, i will encourage them to continue
and i will press hands
and press a kiss to cheek
and they will watch me climb into my vehicle and close my door
and my headlights will recede . . .
now, for tonight, my thoughts are filled with it being the four of us . . .
and of you and i being good stewards of four lives . . .
and of your hands, pressing me together . . .
before headlights recede