The other morning, you were getting into the shower and you sang a snippet of a song, in that one way we often do, and I said that I couldn't wait until we were two old men doing the same thing. You asked me what I meant, and I said that I could just imagine how cute we'd be, two old crotchety men, changing lyrics to better suit us and goofing around because what else can one do when they're with the person they love but sing and color the world with it?
And I meant it everytime, y'know.
I mean it. Them. The oms, the love yous, each kiss.
I need to be better about writing them down, these everyday nuances that arise from our being us. I'm not blessed with your ridiculous ability to remember everything to creepy detail. Already, there are these faded images and forgotten songs that every now and then surface and bring smiles to my face before returning to where they sleep, having briefly danced with my senses like memories of warm pastries or beautiful sunrises.
But that's ok, isn't it? The knowledge that all of this, everything, is temporarily ours makes it all the more worthwhile; such are our memories. We've chosen to spend these moments with each other and though we may not recall them with perfect clarity, we know that they were filled with love and laughter.
This year has been peppered with unbelievable sadness, pain, and uncertainty, but I've always had you to bring me back from where I've gone. And so, this year, though I'm thankful for so many things, for so many people, I'm most thankful for you, my sweet king. It's very easy for my mind and heart to fall into darkest despair, but you remind me that these tiny moments, these shared instances written into time and in our own language are still ours and as bright as suns. You remind me to breathe love and compassion into a world that does not guarantee them. You remind me to live.