I had another meltdown yesterday about where to find home. Ours has been a long and tumultuous transition in these months following the sale of our family home. How will we make this cramped, foreign space ours? What does it take to be intentional about creating an atmosphere of contentment and kindness—a place of belonging again?
With the stillness of predawn, I wake pretzeled with legs entwined, nested against the winter’s chill here under the down duvet pulled up to my chin and to the center of his bare chest. His hand is wide and warm where it rests over my heart, a pinky finger gently hooked on my collar bone. In this early dozing sleep, his breathing is a presence, a metronome of comfort. Our skin carries the memory of secret kisses, and I slip back into another few minutes of lazy slumber.
Last night the surrender of my anxious thoughts did not come easily–not without first an argument, resistance, a pounding out of my fears. I had to turn toward, to engage and allow space for us again. I had to choose us, to choose this, again. Only then was he able to pull me into his embrace, and only then did our bodies fall back against the mattress full and spent. And when ebbed out to sea, my mind found its rest at the center of years’ worth of pleasure and sweet coupling.
He is dreaming secret dreams in the predawn. His fingers twitch and quiver against my chest. His right foot flutter kicks like a baby in the womb—such a contrast to his muscular leg resting between mine, and our stubborn opinions while awake. Again, I bend my will; we both do. My body stretches up against his, and he pulls me in close. I surrender.
We are home.
This piece is an excerpt from Thirty Years, or Forever: the Story of Us.