My husband sits outside our apartment with his guitar, a melancholy sound, daddy there picking the way kids in the yard feel. He plays there so they won’t fight.
I’m in here alone with my cider. I have a new job. I’ve been working at home more (a WAHM), stopping to make drinks, do puzzles, make snuzzle sounds in ears, and be crafty. That pile of clothes? It’s still unfolded. It’s funny that after writing the Proverbs 31 woman post, I’ve become this crazy wild dreamer. Seth has always been a dreamer, I think, but I’m just now letting myself.
We nudge each other from one creative pursuit to the next, but this time, my good husband is putting his foot down. He’s telling me to stop being afraid of success. He tells me I’m beautiful. He hasn’t complained one single time about the pile of clothes. Don’t misunderstand. I don’t display his flaws here. We work hard to make the flaws into minor details.
When we married, he was happy all the time. Happy and smart. And as we get older he explores pain. He mourns for people in the space his music makes.
When you get married, you have no idea the people you’ll become, how many old versions there will be of you.
You don’t know what love is until you’ve hurt together and until you’ve made something together. You don’t continue to fall in love, but you do continue to make it, and over the years, everything about making love changes. It gets better.
We’ll have been married for 12 years this Sunday.
When we make love, we taste creation.