“What good is the warmth of summer without the chill of winter?” ~ John Steinbeck
Things I would like to do with you on a Snowy Weekend.
Friday night begins when the night ends: with you.
The snow still falls from the skies in white, light sparkles, settling against the trees and sidewalks and up against wide curving ancient trees. The falling snow still shows off in dark yellow triangles beneath each street light, falling, slowly, bringing with it quiet magic.
It is night: I would like to you. I would like to bounce and tickle and laugh and bite and be bitten and squeeze and marinate in you.
It is Saturday, morning: When we wake I would like to help you button up the front of your prim dress, cotton, starched. You tie your hair in an elegant whirlwind, or pull it straight to the side. You are simple, and simple is love.
What is love? I do not know. I would like to know. And how we find out is by living a day fully, again and again.
When we wobble downstairs you will shiver and turn on the heat and make coffee and I will put on big boots over my long johns and a big hat over my vertical hair and Red dog and I will go out into the white. And I would like to shovel the walk with a yellow metal shovel while Red dog pees happily, trotting about. Snow always makes him happy.
It is still snowing. I would like to come in and drink hot water and lemon, and the coffee with you and meditate and we get our swimsuits on and tip toe outside and jump in the hot tub and read old New Yorkers. Now we eat too much hot, sweet-smelling cinnamon-raisin bread. It is Saturday so we message our friends on Facebook and meet them at a snowed-in golden cafe, we bike there and unplanned we meet friends.
I would like to talk with you, laugh with you, debate with you, eat with you. I would like to be apart from you and do my things, and I would like you to be separate from me, and as oxygen is to fire, space is to our hunger for one another.
I would like to visit you in The Big Old Black and White City on Valentine’s and I would like to see you in my town at a favorite cafe. I would like to drink more coffee from far away, but roasted only thirty feet away in a century-old roaster.
If you let me, I would like to have five children with you, though I would settle for three. If I let you, you may hold my heart in your hands. It is messy, but beautifully red. Please do not drop it.
I would like it to work, or not to work—if it works, that is love. If it runs out, it is not. For love is not a thing, it is not merely the present moment—love is a string of a thousand, thousand present moments—love is an un-ending string of Christmas lights, but powered by the Sun itself.
If our love runs out, you shall find another. If our love runs out, I would like to love again.
There is love and there is love, so perhaps love is not the question. Perhaps the question is time.
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