iMessage
I think what I wanted most was Sunday mornings with you.
I wanted to wake up with my cheek against your chest, your hair messy from sleep, your glasses sitting on the bedside table
To spend another hour in bed kissing you, my hands against your skin, listening to your heartbeat beneath my ear.
I wanted our clothes in the same closet, my books scattered around our home, the little pieces of our lives so intertwined that we could no longer imagine them apart.
I wanted little feet running down the hallway. Children with your hair and my eyes crawling into bed between us.
To watch you kiss their sleepy faces, to hear them call you Daddy. I wanted to see you in them, in their smiles and their little mannerisms.
To look at these beautiful children and know they were half you and half me.
I wanted toys scattered across the floor, little drawings on the fridge, the exhaustion of getting everyone to bed. To curl up against you at the end of the night and talk about our day, about the children, about nothing at all.
And God, how I wanted the years with you.
To watch your hair turn grey, to see the lines deepen around your eyes. To love you through sickness and the ordinary difficulties of life. To know every version of you, to have the privilege of watching you become an old man and still think you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I wanted the laundry, the groceries, the quiet evenings. I wanted to spend my life taking care of you and being taken care of in return.
To love you so long that it became impossible to remember a time when we hadn’t belonged to each other.
I wanted the rest of my life with you. But God, how I wanted those Sunday mornings.
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