A Rock Home Companion: the Man that Runs this Show
I’ve been in love lately. These boys. My man. They disprove the world. They disprove a few of my generational slants, that men are this or that. My man cooks. He listens to me. He gets me up in the morning, says “get up and have time with God.”
He used to leave a wet towel on my side of the bed. Now he hangs mine as well. He thinks I’m pretty.
My boys start the assent when he walks in the door. They start at his feet and they climb. He changes out of the necktie, and they climb to his lap. They peer over his shoulder. They want to strum with him, his guitar. They would eat from his same fork, take the other half of everything, get under his skin. They want to watch him drive down the driveway. They watch him in the morning as he makes the turn for his office. They ask again when he’ll be home.
They beg him for stories. He has voices.
He leads us to love the world. He filled out adoption paperwork last weekend. We’ve officially started.
He intentions Africa for us, let’s my imagination run wild about it, loves a baby girl with me, one we’ve never seen with our eyes. He sees a future with me and he believes in the irrational with me.
I’ve never seen someone so aware of his depravity while simultaneously shirking shame. He doesn’t care to make a soul uncomfortable. He let’s me buy shirts for the family that say, “147 Million ophans.” He won’t let us not ask hard questions, and he won’t let us ignore.
I brag. I’m not ashamed. He’s so good to me.
UPDATE: this is linked to Tuesdays Unwrapped.