Sunlight filters through the bedroom window, raining down like soft God kisses, tracing a golden outline along the edge of his russet-coffee curls, slipping over the contours of a sharp-angled jaw line, spreading like lover’s fingers over tanned, broad, shoulders and sloping down to narrow waist to catch the fold of white bed sheets over a masculine hip. His breath is an almost imperceptible gesture as he drifts from sleep to wake.
Awareness dawns. Slow, like the crawl of light into shadow, he shifts to face me, vestiges of dreams still clinging to his thick eyelashes, and to his soft lips, that late afternoon playground where old kisses linger like reluctant, yet satiated children called home to dinner.
This is the treasure moment. He opens his eyes and I see heavens and night skies in the glimmer of just-waking blues. If looks were words, this would be a passage I’d underline and transcribe for safekeeping. I am caught, and it’s like the feeling you have when everything has been stripped away, like the proverbial dream where you’re standing in front of an auditorium, giving a speech, and suddenly realize you’re naked. Except this time, the audience is not laughing; they’re gazing at me in awe and wonder – and I, simultaneously vulnerable and emboldened, think I might stand a little taller. It’s that kind of feeling.
This is the moment when he kisses me and means it. Not a quick peck. Not a ritual goodbye or goodnight. It’s a welcome to the day. It’s the burgeoning of love, like each morning is the first we’ve ever spent together, and here, in this fraction of a minute, there are only two of us in the whole world and we are protected, impermeable. There are a thousand ways to fall in love, but only one way to surrender – and that is: completely.
I surrender. In that glistening, golden moment, there is only surrender.
I always want it to last. But the day and the dog beckon, and, in a flash, it’s gone. I turn to my side and prepare for my own day while he is already out of bed and putting on clothes. I feel wistful for a bleary-eyed, heavy-headed moment, missing the thread of connection already.
I rise and exchange the slippers of melancholy for my solid, sturdy work boots and trudge out of the resurrection place, out to greet the day. I stop pining after glimmers and ghosts, knowing that the moment will return.
It will be back tomorrow.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
This piece was written for a Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circle, where a group of writers convene online, respond to a prompt, and share their words to receive collective praise and constructive advice. If you would like to join in, we have new dates available in October. Check out the details and sign up HERE!
Shared as this week’s Bigger Picture Moment