face red he lies, eyes under pillow, me touching hand where the tarnished gold of ring digs deep worn farm-boy finger. he can’t move, for the migraine blinding fast, and i remember, eight years ago, me cooling fever-forehead and him asking shaky, “will you take care of me forever?” and me falling on him in forgetful joy, forgetful of his brain-pain but him letting me, laughing a little, as we thought of marriage and children and dancing forever this slow wedded waltz, and here we are, eight years later, tarnished gold on fingers staining skin, my hand still on his brow, a little boy asleep in nearby bassinet.
and now, remembering the run in hay-fever sun, the run in which i heard heaven’s voice: “this is the man i’ve prepared for you…” and knowing now, that voice, ever closer, confirming each day, “this is the man” and me leaning on these words and us leaning on each other’s broken bodies and making most of shortened days…
and soon, to follow this man out west, to live in a house we haven’t bought, to work at jobs we haven’t claimed, to live lives we’ve never known, to go in faith, as we did seven years ago when we whispered ‘i do’ under flower-trellis in my parents’ backyard.
and i step each day in a journey that’s been prepared for us… not knowing, just mending fevered love, and touching the hand where the gold of wedding ring glints bright…
