i can picture it, future wife

Hi, dear.

The other day I woke up with a scary thought.

What if you’re not reading these?

I mean, is anybody reading personal blogs anymore?

What if I’m just tossing these words, that are truly pieces of me, into the great abyss?

It’s possible, I guess.

I pulled the covers up to my nose and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe these letters aren’t going directly to you. Maybe the universe is reading.

Maybe when I do enough good deeds, I’ll be rewarded.

With you.

Maybe.

I closed my eyes again.

I think I’m a pretty logical dude when it comes to most things.

But not love.

Love is magic.

You can’t have magic without an almost-childlike belief.

And the best magic always involves some reckless abandon.

A smile formed under my cozy flannel sheets.

I can picture you reading these. I really can.

I can picture you reading these and thinking they can’t be real. (They are.) Thinking that you deserve these things. (You do.) And wondering.

“Maybe?”

I can picture us on our couch. Your head on my lap, while I play with your hair. Pearl Jam’s “Yellow Ledbetter” comes on. I’m happy. You groan. I ask if you want me to change songs. You say, “No. Then you’d have to stop.”

I can picture me telling you that when you were born, you probably complained about the width of the birth canal. Then you get mad. Then appreciate the craftsmanship. Then get mad again.

I can picture me charming my way out of trouble.

I can picture the look in your gorgeous eyes just before just before we kiss. And knowing that, when it comes to you, I’ll always be in the best kind of trouble.

I can picture the smile you smile (that belongs only to me) when you call me a goof for being super excited about finding a documentary on Netflix about an independent minor league baseball team in Portland in the ’70s.

I can picture you dancing as you cook a late dinner consisting of something that probably wouldn’t qualify as a dinner. Then stopping when you notice me. Then starting to dance again.

I can picture me being completely and utterly besotted.

I can picture you flashing me a nose scrunch when I use words like “besotted.”

I can picture a bundled-up you giving me a squeezy hug while you run by on your way to your car, as I scrape the ice off your windshield. And telling friends you don’t need a push-button starter, because you have an “automatic car Peter.”

I can picture you telling me about all your woes of the day. Then I reply, “Well, my dear, you know you’re very lucky to have a man who knows that sometimes you just want to vent, and that you don’t need me to fix everything–”

“But you’re going to try to fix everything?”

“Well, sure. A little bit.”

I can picture me smiling as you tell me, “This haircut makes me look like a poooooooodle, Peter.”

“Nooooo.”

“Why are you laaaughing?”

“With your face, you can have any kind of hairstyle and still look amazing. I mean, look at that face! You couldn’t see it, but I just swooned. And IF you did look like a poodle, you’d be a high-fashion poodle.”

“A high-fashion poodle?”

“Something that a rich chick would carry in her purse.”

“It is beyond weird that somehow that helps.”

And then I make out with you. Because I can and I should and YAY!

I can picture all of it.

But most of all, I can picture bigspooning you in bed in the comfortably quiet darkness.

And, love, when we fall asleep that way, I know I’ll never wake up with¬†scary¬†thoughts.

Love,
Peter
 

 

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photo credit: Ed Yourdon via photopin cc

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