He lays his hand on my bare shoulder.
Water drips from the tips of strands tousled and tucked and a rivulet runs down the small of my back. He kisses me dry.
“I have no idea what to wear.” I’m paying him no mind, standing before the closet with my towel, mumbling words. Hangers clatter.
“This skin you’re wearing is pretty beautiful.” His stubble finds the curve of my neck, then the gentle lips, them making their way.
“No…” I laugh, embarrassed, try to squirm out of those arms wrapped around, reach for a dress at the back, stretch far away. “Don’t be silly…. I just need something simple….”
Lips pull away.
I can feel him still, arms around me, tensed, steady. I know. What words will now come. I close my eyes in the waiting. He says them slow, low, and they run down my spine…
“When I tell you that you are beautiful…”
His hands on my shoulder, he turns me, and I can’t look, too ashamed.
“You said you’d hear me.”
“Yes… I remember. What you said, how I could be a better wife.” Deep breath, open eyes, open heart. I look into his, faces naked before each other.
“I know…. When you say I’m beautiful…. I’m to believe it. Receive your love.”
This is always the hardest.
We lean and our foreheads touch, breath mingling. We’ve only found this place through a trail of years.
Rarely do I want to receive love just as it comes, soundless rain in late April light. Love falls softly; it cannot be forced. I have tried. That just about undid us.
Funny, how love, this thing muscular and the only eternal, this bridge between our souls, it will sag sorely under pressure, love can’t bear the weight of our expectations, cracking at the joists where I slam foot in demand, where I peer laser sharp in the over analysis. Our bridge has near split, swayed and only grace saves us.
The days and the years, they teach me the startling; love can’t be strong-armed by the tongue. Love isn’t a function of communication. Love’s a function of connection; the gentle whoosh and rush of the blood through the veins, the tender connecting of the one flesh.
Poor communication doesn’t disconnect souls. It’s the disconnected souls who poorly communicate. I am learning.
Words may only magnify the fractures.
It’s the souls that laugh.
That let eyes linger and the fingertips meet, that find their way back to the beginning and share the values and the relive the memory and the flame every morning. How we first fell and ignited. Can I call that place home?
It only takes four minutes a day to move into a deeper heart place. It only takes four minutes a day to connect in soul intimacy; to breathe in oxygen for the other half of my heart. Don’t and I too begin to suffocate, the death heave. I wish someone had told me in the beginning.
Four times a day think on love. When I leave the marriage bed, leave the front door, when I return to front door, return to marriage bed. These are the four critical archways of time in our day. Touch or whisper a sweet nothing when passing through these gate points, and we walk into hours of closeness. Forever love fixates like fresh love.
Four times a day, wrap up in husband. Embrace fully and hold each other’s eyes. That’s all. Repeat four times daily. The one flesh breathes best when the skin pores are close; connected.
Four times during the day, thank him. For working faithfully to provide, for hanging up his towel, for putting gas in the van, for making this heart skip a wild beat. Look for the ways to thank him and watch how moves closer.
“Thank you.” I stand on tipped toes, hair still dripping, brush his cheek with the words, my lips. “Just for this.”
Love comes in the surrender, the falling.
“You mean, for this?” His eyes glint and he kisses too long, and we’re a laughing mess and love is more than words. Love is the life-weaving, a braid of a three fold cord, Love Himself in the center.
Our fingers lace.
4 minutes times 4 affirmations, 4 hugs, 4 fixations = Fresh Love!