I've failed abundantly at it thus far, considering this is supposed to be the 11th day in the challenge, I started it early, and it's the 21st of April.
Oh well, I never have been good at following directions.
Today, the prompt reads, "Your current relationship; if single, discuss that."
Here's the link to the list of prompts if you're interested.
My current relationship. Well.
I've told you all almost everything about us and yet somehow have said virtually nothing. That's the trick of being a writer in this online world, this ability to simultaneously share everything and nothing.
If you'd have told me 24 years ago as I sat in a stuffy driver's education classroom, bored and annoyed by guy sitting in front of me, that one day I'd marry the quiet one beside me who had never even made eye contact with me up until that point, I'd likely have told you that you were crazy. Certifiably so.
Back then, I was more outgoing. I was far more reckless. I was in an odd place in my personal development, having already gone through the most turbulent times of my adolescence and making some attempts to atone for a string of awful choices. I was trying to fix all the things that were wrong with me the best I knew how. I was a mess, even at 15.
The guy in front of me, one who would talk incessantly, one who believed that I wanted anything to do with him. He tried, daily, to get me to feign interest in him.
I was trapped in the last seat in the row, on the aisle at the end, in the corner. When it got to the point that I couldn't take it anymore, I turned to my left, looking for an escape from the drone of his voice.
He was there.
He'd sat next to me for months by that point, but we'd never had any interaction at all. I introduced myself, desperate to make small talk. I don't even remember what we talked about in those moments, while I was trying to avoid someone else, while we were both supposed to be paying attention to some lecture about blind spots. I guess it doesn't matter now, not that it ever really did. He was my soft place to land when I was running away.
He is still my soft place to land when I'm running away.
This morning, one of our daughters woke us up at 6:18am. She needed me to cut her sandwich. Let me sleep a bit longer, I begged. He laughed at the ridiculousness of being awoken an hour before anyone had to leave to go anywhere to cut a sandwich.
We both tried and failed to go back to sleep. The sun was up and sandwiches needed cut, after all.
I rolled over to his side, nuzzled my face deep into his chest, inhaling his scent. Beard balm, lotion, cologne, him.
We fit together perfectly, him and I.
We always did.
Even when we didn't.
Perhaps that sums up our relationship better than anything else I've ever written.
I could have stayed there forever this morning, our bodies intertwined.
We talked for a while as we lay there, willing the day not to start quite yet. About my brokenness and his, about the reasons we are who we are and how we got here, about how living in this world we occupy now, in this great after phase for us, is better even though I never thought we'd be here someday.
There were a great many times I wasn't sure we'd make it this far.
There's an ease to us now, one which didn't exist before. A rhythm.
He's home, and not my current home; he's my only home.
Home should be a soft place to land.