Future Memories

 What a difference just a few weeks makes.  

On July 18th, Genevieve and I flew to Michigan and you returned from camp two days later.  Two weeks apart was rougher than I'd expected.  Talking and texting with you helped.  I missed your physical presence, though. We'd only barely started touching when you traveled to camp Willborough, place of your child and teen memories of Scout traditions, adventures, learning, and friends.  Only barely had we kissed, grazing lips gently--tentatively, holding each other with layers of clothing and some doubt and joy and promise.  

Your voice on the phone felt warm and comfortable, teasing, listening, laughing.  I could picture your head tilting when you stretched out, "Yeeesss."  We spent a night on the lake deck watching fireflys and the sunset so late I got locked out of the cottage.  Everywhere I looked, stories of my childhood trips to Lake Michigan rose like ghosts from the sand.  And I wanted to share those ghosts with you. Mostly, though, I want to make new memories with you.  

And we've made some already since then.  Rushing across town at night into your arms with all the kisses you'd promised when we were apart.  Drifting toward your room with clothes falling away.  Watching your surprise as you discovered what hid beneath my "flowing clothes." Feeling your hands meet parts of my body for the first time.  Touching yours, pulling you closer.   Too excited to fully sleep much after, twisted up in each other's limbs.  Sleeping late in your room without sun.  Waking together and dressing reluctantly, already comfortable bare.  

We held hands driving to Felton where shopping with you at the grocery store holding hands felt much less nerve-aching than last time.  Then going to meet your friends. Angie in her birthday sash, grilling you about me, "How long have you been together?" "Two weeks," you answer.  It feels so much longer to me, wonderfully longer, like discovering a dreamy memory becoming reality.  "Where did you meet?" "I was teaching her daughter to swim."  Thoughts of you with her at the pool, intent on her learning and safety, a stranger then, flash through my head.  Now we hold hands and I rest my head on your shoulder, grateful to be included and learning more about the important people in your world.  I listen to the easy steady rhythm of your conversation with Seth and them teasing you.  I hear his wife say, "I hear wedding bells" behind us as we lean into each other. It feels possible, likely, right. 

After, you carry the charcoal back to Seth's truck and we drive back to your house where your lips reach for mine again between words touching on pieces of the day we'd had together so far and all the days we wanted to have.  At 6:30, I head home to see Genevieve, tuck her in, and unpack, anxious to get back to you later that night...