As I dried my hands from washing the dishes, I noticed - all at once - that dusk had fallen.
An hour before, the afternoon light poured in through the sliding glass doors, filling the room with yellow brightness. Now there was a wan, blue glow, and the sky was turning pink around the edges, like a shy blush. I sat on the couch for a few minutes to take it in. I stretched, trying to mollify the tension in my shoulders. My eyes were still sore from my tears this morning; the ache made me weary and pensive.
It did not, however, make me melancholy.
In the dusk, I reviewed the morning mentally, as though I was rolling a morsel over my tongue. Though parts were bitter, and occasionally peppery, it only served to give complexity to the overall sweetness.
Briefly, I thought of laying in the morning darkness, grieving and confused, as I listened to Chris' soliloquy on why exactly he's finding life so hard these days.
Mostly though, I thought of the way he'd carefully cleared away my confusion, assuring me that it wasn't my fault. I thought of the way he kissed me as we sat on our bed, surrounded by used tissues and tender, renewed hope. I remembered the thought that flashed through my mind as we made breakfast together: it's so good to have him back. I thought of the sound of our water glasses clinking as we toasted "to better days."
I thought of the purposeful light in his eyes as he snatched up a whiteboard marker and readjusted his days to reflect the new understanding he gained of his priorities. "I love you more than I know how to say," he'd told me afterwards, putting down the marker and holding my hand.
I know just what he means. We've discussed in the past how I (like many people with English degrees) tend to use 10 words where one would satisfy. I want to make accurate statements, and often feel that means giving the whole picture instead of just the most representative piece.
So maybe that's why I blog. Hundreds, thousands of words later, I'm still just trying to say how much I love this man.