He and I, away for the weekend, right here at home.
The boy room, quiet, still, empty. Our three blurs of life away for the weekend, too.
Dinner grilled, he my personal chef. Candles lit, table ready, food so fancy. I, set words to paper; he, from stoveside, cheered me on.
Then, together dined, together filled.
We fell under warm blankets as snow fell outside. Hand to hand, heart to heart, face to face, wrapped as one. Nora Jones by evening, Patsy Cline by morning light.
Slow time.
Morning sun, shy across the eastern sky. Together in the coffee-scented kitchen. Breakfast in the skillets, biscuits in the oven, orange juice in the cups.
He said Grace.
Bodies nourished, plates pushed back, more coffee, hot. Long conversation.
I know those eyes.
I know that voice.
I know those lips, that smile.
I know the man.
Now, even more.