Rooted, I used to think.

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Monday, Dec. 30, 2019 @ 12:07 pm

We lay in the dark, flesh against flesh, tightly holding onto each other.

We spent the night with his friends’ children, the four-year-old girl on my knee. He hair impossibly fine and her face impossibly perfect. Turned-up nose and rosy cheeks. I read her a bedtime story, and she began to nibble her nails at the tense part of the story. Already anxious, already lost in her own mind.

In the dark of the guest room, we are both relieved to be alone and together. No tiny people demanding attention. The window is open a crack, and I hear the creek that rushes along down in ravine.

My heart aches and pulses. In my head, I recite over and over: I love you very much.

I nearly say it out loud. The words have become so large within me that I can barely contain them. They push against the insides of my ribs, clawing their way out. Say it, just say it.

I don’t say it. Instead, I say, “This is the best part of my day.”

“Me too,” he says. “Me too.”

Roots | Shoots