The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch,
And your eyes twinkle as I venture a first bite.
“Pretty good, right?”
It’s a quesadilla and it’s perfect,
exactly to my preference.
Warmly brown and crisp on the outside,
Cold sour cream mingling with too much hot melty cheese and chicken and all the fixins.
A real knock out as far as quesadillas go.
I smile with my eyes and happily munch,
not especially hungry but I know you are.
You spoke this into existence,
A master of your own love language.
In many ways, I am fed.
.
Ingratitude does not become us;
I eat of your hand and rejoice the offering
As my brain whispers:
“My love, please leave me to myself.”
These days I am as two ships passing,
So rare an hour is it to shake my own hand,
Cull my own thoughts,
Breathe my silent breath unaccompanied.
Spinning sugar and spinning wheels are my god-given gifts.
I use the first to coat my tongue.
The second hangs in the air between us.
“Better than good,” I say,
Moving to rest,
To dream my silly dreams,
To paint my silly heart across the mercurial landscape of shared memory.
I am my best when I end my days like a spoiled Pomeranian:
Seated on a cushion
Worrying a bone.
.
The mysterious clicking and clacking of the HVAC tip taps merrily to the rush and whir of the electric heat.
The impression of a kiss still lingers on my cheek
In the quiet.
The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch.
It is a miracle to build a structure with your bare hands that bends without breaking,
and supports your weight without shaking.
