We wake up Saturday to the distant grumble of thunder and the play of far-off lightning on our walls. It is early and we don’t have to be anywhere, so I roll over, Husband pulls me to him with his strong arms, and we drift back to sleep.
An hour later, I wake again. That lovely slow surfacing feeling when no alarm or loud noise or other irritation has awakened you. I turn to face him and he kisses my nose.
Good morning, gorgeous.
These mornings are so precious. Just me and him, the warm bed, the crisp comforter. Fingers of light reaching gently through the blinds.
He, stroking my hair, kissing my shoulder. We talk about the dreams we had last night. Giggling at their absurdity. We dream, together, of our future – the plan for the day, the house we want to buy, the children we may or may not have. We whisper, even though it is daylight and no one can hear us.
So far off, they seem: the 30-hour stretches at the hospital… the hours at home when he’ll be too tired to do anything but fall asleep in front of the TV… the quiet nights and holidays when I have to surrender him to his patients.
I try to drink these moments in like a little cactus. Store them somewhere deep inside me, to dole out in drips and trickles in the coming drought.