I want you to picture this with whichever member you want.
The early morning fog clings to the window. I pull down on the sleeves of my sweater so that they cover my hands, leaving my fingertips exposed to the cold air. It’s mid-November and most of the flowers from the garden have given up and died away. However, there are still patches of vibrant color in the flowers still there. They cut through the darkness, and I think you are alive in them.
I look at them and I see the girl who climbed the top of the tree that stood outside our dorm, because you couldn’t stand watching the leaves fall to the ground without bidding them one final goodbye, catching each one and whispering something sweet, before letting them catch the movement of the wind. Eighteen and so resistant to everything in the world that told you that you should be sad. That smile as you let each one go. Oh, how I loved you.
I loved you when you were twenty-two and lost. College went by so quickly; you studied the world as I studied you, and at the end of our first four years, you didn’t know what to do. I remember sitting with you on the stone steps of your apartment, as you watched the movers pack up the last of your things. You looked over at me before resting your head on my shoulder. “Would you be mad if I left?” You asked.
“Where would you go?” I forced my words out as I tightened my grip on your hand.
“I don’t know. Maybe China. Maybe I could teach for a while there. I want to know that part of me.”
It took everything in me not to scream out. You had a life here, and I felt like you were just ready to leave it behind. But I swallowed my selfishness because I knew this decision was bigger than me. Five weeks later, I helped you pack your things in a giant green suitcase and drive you to the airport. I loved you through steady sobs and a tear-stained sweatshirt, and past the moment I could no longer see you as you rounded the corner to security.
Okay, this part is tricky. You’re twenty-seven and heartbroken, and I try to control the knots in my stomach as you fold in half on the couch. You ask me if you should call him and I tell you no. You say you’ve given up on love and I tell you that that’s all right. I run my hand through the strands of your hair and think that maybe I can love enough for the both of us.
You are twenty-nine and scared. You come over to my apartment in the middle of the night; your hair dampened by the rain that seems to flow out of you. We sit on my couch with our feet intertwined. I tell you I’m scared too. That night, you kiss me where I lay down, as I press my hands to your cheeks. I quake from underneath you as you dip down and up, down and up.
You are thirty-three and I am yours. I’m looking at a smaller reflection of your image. She stares up at you, wide-eyed and curious, as you read aloud poetry by Alice Walker. She smiles at you like you are her entire universe, not understanding the gravity of the words you speak, but loving the soothing sound of your voice. I run my fingers over my lips to mask my grin. I can’t believe this is my life.
You are fifty-four and have fallen in love with dancing. We spend hours in the halls of our house, practicing the steps and finding solace in the music that hums from the record player. You wince as I step on your toes ( I never said I was good at this, love) before breaking into laughter that echoes off the walls. “I love you.” You say.
I tell you how beautiful your flowers look and place a hand on your shoulder. You look up at me with eyes that now bear a softer shade of brown. You are seventy-one and all I see. “Do you want to smell them with me?” You ask. I nod. Later that year, when they are withering away, you take the petals and let them fall to the ground, and suddenly you are eighteen again, and I am just a boy taking in all that you are.
The house is quiet. I can pick up each faint breath, each fragile movement, and I am here for it—I won’t leave. You are eighty-five and tired. I think about the life that we’ve had together, and I’m sorry if it’s selfish that I still want more. I want another dance, another late night, another moment where my world makes sense because you are smiling. Yeah, I want that. I love you.
I am eighty-six and I miss you. I think about how beautiful we made each other and I hold my sleeve over my eyes for just a moment. God, I miss you. So I walk out to the garden and gather the petals from the dead flowers before letting them fall to the ground. And I know that you know this, I do: but I have loved you since we were eighteen. To be loved and to be in love…thank you for that.
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