Telling Truths...

I wish you could see what I do. The infinite promise. The inner beauty.

I wish you could see the one who lives in you. The good you can do. The way you gift a life. Not just mine. But those that you shine on. Those that snare you with their light, matching one another somehow. Children. Old women. Young women. Cranky old men.

It’s easy to define you, too simply. Yes, you are a man. Mmmhmm. Yes, that means you are messy. That you are distracted by short skirts and breasts. No, you don’t do dishes. Yes, you would rather play guitar all day instead of deal with the minutia of daily life.

I can say that about all of us. But you, you live your life by your own whims and fancies. It takes courage to do that.

I once said that your problem was that you are selfish.

I was wrong. You are selfish in a selfless way. In a way that honors your spirit. In a manner that most of us have forgotten and have grown bitter about. Hoarding our time in front of the TV, making excuses for being a no show…. You have simply said, “No.” We can all learn a lesson from this.

You are generous in so many ways. Not with just material things… but of your heart. Giving away so much. So much. And I sometimes wonder what we give you in return.

I wish everyone could see what I do. How profoundly good a man you are.

It’s almost hard to type that. I know you may think it’s too much. And perhaps my critics will say I am still too much in the bloom of love. But I know these matters. I can read the map long before I admit to it. Sure. The dishes thing will piss me off in the long run. But it’s all petty. Petty bullshit.

I love that you made the bed. Even if you think it was not my usual way. Who gives a shit. I love that you made the bed as a surprise for me.

I miss you when you are not here. Not always consciously. But the house is too quiet.

I am not thinking about how you did not hang your towel up when you are not here. I am thinking about how I wanted to lay in bed with you, snuggled in to the coverlet. My legs twined with yours.

There are times when I worry that I, in my high brow way, will run you off. That the Virgo in me will drive you crazy with baskets and labeled files. That eventually my patience will run out and you will think this means that my heart is empty of love for you.

I will lose patience.

I will not love you less.

And the critics can hush. I have been married. I know what realism is. Seven nights, three-hundred and sixty-fives days of underwear on the floor will break a woman down. But I also know how rare this kind of man is. A profoundly good man. One who will bring you flowers even though it was YOU who started the fight. Or will drop a little boy off at school so he does not have to stand out in the rain. Or says things like “I want in to your life, let me in.”

There is a small part of me that is still closed. Yes. Silliness. But I am coming around. It’s only a matter of time. (It’s still early yet.)

The bones are good. The rest is just … something we work with.

There are parts of our light that matches.

And my life is filled with it.


G.