It gets harder to write as life becomes full.
Full of love. Full of peace. Full of early morning coffees and late night lounging on a secondhand couch watching the same old, same old. Full of errands and odd ends that cause a slow leak in time; draining it quietly, like an over filled tub.
Full of, “I love you’s,” “I’m almost there’s,” and “Did you remember to pick up the…’s.”
Full of first fights, and fifth fights and never being the first to apologize. Full of serious conversations about The Way Things Are and how we Wish They Could Be. Full of practice times and dinner times and bed times and prayer times before leaving times. Full deadlines and headlines.
It seems as if I’ve waited all my life for these kinds of days. Full days. Long and slow, lazy Saturdays. Rushed and harried, almost late Mondays.
Days full of silence and days full of talks. Talks over coffee, talks over tea, talks late at night when all the world should be sleeping. Talks when the whole house is otherwise dark, still and quiet; with only the fading orange glow of a kitchen light protecting us from the demons and monsters lurking in the night.
That and the light shining in my eyes when his meet mine.
My life is full to the brim of photos depicting a life that looks nothing like the one I planned to have, but oh, how unremarkably beautiful it all is.
No sweeping landscapes or majestic mountains. No flower wreaths in perfectly curled hair. No daily espresso art, or towering shelves of unread books in an untouched, in-home, under-a-staircase, hidden library.
Just unswept bathroom floors, black leggings and cheap coffee, in a usually clean kitchen, cooking dinner with someone who makes my heart satisfied with the ordinary.
How stupidly stable. How astonishingly fulfilling. How ridiculously, reliably, refreshingly real. Somehow my life looks nothing like what I wished for, ripening into something much sweeter than expected. And I’m thankful.