I remember the first time I told you I wanted to write a book. It was midnight, dark, dark without moonlight. I was lying awake, thinking about it, about the way it was weighing on my shoulders, and how I wanted to tell you, but felt shy. Often I'd only let myself think about it at night, when I was sure you were unconscious and snoring softly beside me. But that night you stirred, like you knew I was mulling life over, and you ran your hand down my spine ever so gently, asking me silently if I was aware.
I whispered, I need to write a book. It's in there. And it's bugging me.
You simply ran your fingers down my back once again. It was winter and your fingers were cold through my flannel shirt. I wanted to see your face, desperately, and yet, I craved the privacy of not knowing how you first reacted.
We were just a year married then. Fresh off tragedy realizing the temporal nature of life, the way marriages beautiful and lovely weren't free of loss, learning that love does conquer all in the hardest and scariest of ways. We didn't talk about it again for well over a year. Until now.
I was shy when we started talking about the book again, like when we first started dating and I didn't know if you were interested or not. I was shy because sometimes our dreams feel silly when we speak them out loud. Sometimes they feel like dreams -imaginary and far out spots in our consciousness- and sometimes they feel like hope -attainable, beautiful goals.
Now you ask about word counts. You tell me there will be a nice dinner when the manuscript is done. You walk through cerebral conversations with me. You do it with humor and genuine mulling over of my questions, problems, conundrums. You make jokes when I get too bogged down in the abstractions, then you pack away the issues at hand and bring them back to me with a fresh perspective. You promise you'll read it, you'll ask for my autograph, and you'll take me away for the weekend when I'm published.
You spur my motivation. You laugh when I'm too serious and you engage when I'm stumped. You feed my soul. I hope I can be as nutritious to your hungry soul as you are to mine.
May we always be filled with hopes and dreams,
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