"Am I crushing you?"
"Not at all," he replied.
His arms held tighter than necessary. 'Stay right here. Please.'
I curled up legs and nestled my nose into his neck.
Just sat there for a long time, and realized how rarely I am this docile.
We were on the porch surrounded by people, but they didn't come into focus.
Usually I am distracted from him. There is always one more thing. We whirl in orbits around each other, never meeting.
I knew him for a solid year before we were together.
 |
| pre-wedding moment 2007 |
I had to consciously tell myself,
"Do not put your arm around him and your head on his chest. That would be weird."
His impulse was the same.
He says, "I had to sit on my hands to keep from reaching out and grabbing you."
A very real tether tied us.
It was nauseating for any person in the room.
My friend would say,
"I don't know what is between you two, but it is so thick you could cut it with a knife."
That's how it felt to me, a thing with such undeniable substance. I didn't know what to do with it...where to put it?
It had so much mass, we put it at the center. Right next to Grace or God or maybe they are the same thing.
I think maybe...
But just like any awakening, it has faded over time. Possibility's brilliance has dulled into reality.
"A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid anymore." ~John Steinbeck, East of Eden
He has told me, "I miss how you were in the beginning, before you had all these opinions and fight in you. It seems like you have become more opinionated and difficult as time goes on."
At first the feminist in me raged at this comment. I authored brilliant rants against him.
Now that I've sat with it a while, I find it is true. He is missing the beauty of One Thing.
During the summer of 2006 there was only Andrew and Sarah. We wake-boarded every weekend. We took long naps in the afternoon, and walked to the nearest restaurant for dinner. In the evening we'd go for a run together and sprint through the sprinklers. We ate soft-serve frozen yogurt from Maverick and walked around town at our leisure. We went on dates to ride mountain zip-lines. We could lie belly to belly and see into each other. I have never been so comfortable just staring at another person. Sometimes I thought I should look away, but I knew I didn't have to and he didn't either...One Thing...
Now that original light has spread and dispersed. It has become a family. a mortgage. health insurance. laundry. toys. grocery list. over-time. mini-van. diapers. Disney movies. car repairs. yard work. training wheels. storage space. date night. It is impossible to encapsulate that original light into "date night."
My eating disordered brain says, "Andrew liked it better when you were skinnier, sicker, more subservient. You should eat less and go back to being her."
But I know that's not true. I know we actually love each other, and he is just missing a simpler time.
We could not hoard this light if we tried. It had to either move out into more life, or be snuffed out.
One morning after Beckam was born and we were both beyond exhausted, Andrew looked at me and asked,
"Why did we do this? Why do people have kids?"
I erupted into tears,
"I don't know! Don't ask me to explain timeless questions of human experience! I don't know why!"
Maybe though, maybe I kind of know. And maybe it has to do with honoring that original light we were given. Because we certainly didn't create it.
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