As I write this Jean-Michele is still in bed--I can just see her feet peeking out from under the covers from where I'm typing, if I crane my head back and check for her. She'll be up soon, and then the day will begin, as it always does, but today is our fifth wedding anniversary. Five years--a heady chunk of time, but it's been no prison sentence: I've loved these days, surprising as they've been, and there's no one better than she. We're bad at enforced relaxation and ceremony, so I doubt we'll "celebrate" the way other couples might, but I bet we'll have a notes session, drink coffee together, work on our respective books, take the dog to the park and laugh a lot--and for us, that's a blessing.
Five years. Nice work, love.
When I wake up earlier than you and you
are turned to face me, face
on the pillow and hair spread around,
I take a chance and stare at you,
amazed in love and afraid
that you might open your eyes and have
the daylights scared out of you.
But maybe with the daylights gone
you'd see how much my chest and head
implode for you, their voices trapped
inside like unborn children fearing
they will never see the light of day.
The opening in the wall now dimly glows
its rainy blue and gray. I tie my shoes
and go downstairs to put the coffee on.