Post holiday quiet space. Well quietish, the kids are making cookies with grandma, the baby is nursing. At peace in her innocence, sustained and warm.
I can’t help these days worrying about my mate who strains, but never breaks, under the weight of a universe that judges him two thirds a man.
The grim set of his mouth and hitch in his swagger. His fingers brush the earth under the weight. Sweat stained and tired. I know he will never let his knees buckle.
Would that I could carry this for him. Would that I could.
Unable to change the world I do what I can to change our little cosmos, feed and grow children. Educate them. Fan out the fires when and how I can. I press my mouth into the warm, brown, strength in the hollow of his throat. Whispering kisses. Whispering love. Whispering all of our pasts and futures refined here in this singular moment.
I love you