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I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand and the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me when you sleep and there are no words for that.
We're sitting in a fancy restaurant in San Juan, the kind of restaurant with $29 prices and food names like Prosciutto di Parma and Peekytoe Crab. I'm still a little queasy from the plane, thanks to the woman drenched in perfume who sat directly in front of us, but I'm doing my best to hide it from you, because we're in Puerto Rico and we're married and I'm going to live it up.
You speak at least a little more Spanish than me - I chose French in high school - so I joke that since I am unable to decipher even the ingredients listed under the food titles, you better not let me order some dish that's actually wood or something.
"Wood?" you scoff. "Couldn't think of anything more creative?"
"Shut up, I'm tired," I laugh, but you frown a little and ask if I'm okay and, see, I knew I shouldn't have said anything, because there you go being wonderful.
When the waiter takes our order, I get the sopón de pollo con arroz because soup (I've gathered it's that much, at least) seems like the best choice for me right now, and you nod approvingly. "No wood in that," you promise. "It's a dish made only with plastic."
We beam at each other for several moments, not saying anything, and I know we must look ridiculous just grinning at each other, but there's a ring on your finger that represents me and a ring on my finger that represents you, and it makes us both feel like we're floating.
Somewhere in the midst of this grinning marathon, I start talking. I don't even know where it comes from, but I suddenly have a lot to say, and it's in this serious voice that makes your eyes grow focused.
I never have been able to be as open about my feelings as you; you're an open book and I'm the kind with the pages stuck together that you have to pry open carefully because you know there's a page there, but open too forcefully and it tears. I'm affectionate, though, despite this, and I always hope that my actions speak what my words, for whatever I had a rough childhood and a rough past relationship clichéd reason, can't. You know all this about me, know instinctively, so that focus in your eyes is only growing as the words roll faster off my tongue and you lean forward to listen.
The day of our wedding, instead of wishing me luck or telling me how amazing my future's going to be, my mother reminded me I could call it off. She's been saying a lot of stuff like that since the divorce and I know I should just disregard it, because she does love you, she just doesn't really have much faith in things like weddings anymore, but it always makes something inside of me tighten.
It was the Thanksgiving after I came back from Pratt and I didn't yet know just how bad the situation between my parents had become, when she started this whole thing. Remember how I cooked Thanksgiving dinner for everyone, but kind of burned the turkey? I never have been able to cook a turkey without burning it. I tried to do it the first year Roy and I were engaged, because we had people over then too, but I completely destroyed it and he was so annoyed. I said I'd never cook one again after that, but then you and I got engaged and I wanted to try again so that our kids can have a mom who knows how to make a freaking turkey. But anyway, you remember, I burned it a little and you just grinned and said, "At least it isn't undercooked!" and told me I did a great job, even though I was blushing and embarrassed because your family was there too and we were all together for the first time and I wanted to impress everyone with my mad cooking skills.
"Couples fight," my mom told me in this contemplative voice as I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher afterward, your comforting laughter radiating from the living room where everyone else was gathered, watching A Christmas Story as part of some early, it's-almost-Christmas ABC Family marathon.
I felt kind of sick then, because, you know, this is my mother and she's telling me my relationship might not be healthy because of my lack of desire to do something like throw a hair straightener at you from time to time and your inability to yell at me over an overcooked turkey. She and my dad had been married for a long time; I thought she knew what she was talking about.
I went into the living room and you patted the seat next to you on the couch for me to sit down, this huge grin on your face just because I was standing in front of you and I realize now how amazing that is, how so far beyond lucky I am to have someone who actually grins when I walk into a room, but at the time I just scowled and sat down without really acknowledging you. God, you looked so hurt. I still remember that look and you probably don't even, but I'll never forget how fast your face fell and I knew in that moment I could never really fight with you for long, because I couldn't stand seeing that look. Our relationship would just have to be unhealthy in that regard. I tried to recover by resting my head on your shoulder and lying about having a headache, and thankfully it worked. You visibly relaxed, rubbing my back and repeating that Thanksgiving was great.
I realize now that the tone of my mother's voice was that of a woman trying to convince herself that her own relationship wasn't dying. I wonder now how many other families have the kind of relationship my parents did, how many of them think it's normal to fight like cats and dogs...probably more than I can imagine. It actually makes me ache a little to know that my parents are part of that group, that they've never felt about each other the way I feel about you.
It always seems to be the simplest moments, too, when I'm reminded of just how lucky I am. Like when I fall asleep before you, which I do all the time lately, but wake up to your arms tightly wrapped around me and your legs intertwined with mine. I think what I look forward to most is holding our baby in bed with us after feedings, light streaming through the curtains in the mornings, just the three of us.
I really couldn't have done this without you. Okay, stop, come on, I'm being serious. Obviously, I couldn't have physically done this without you, but really, don't you remember how nervous I always was to have kids? When I met you, it's like it vanished completely, my fear that I wouldn't be enough, my whole confidence thing...and wow, this is cheesy, but I can't help it. This is my toast to you. You did one for me and this one is for you. I'm pregnant and we were on a plane for four hours and the last thing I should feel like doing is sitting in a restaurant, but my emotions have overpowered every physical sensation and there is no where else I'd rather be than right here, sitting across from you. And with that, I raise my filtered water.
I love you.
I am really happy.
And now you're laughing and saying you didn't know I was such an eloquent speaker, but your eyes are glassy, I can see them, and I know mine are too, and you're saying this is the best honeymoon ever and I laugh and say, 'We only get one,' and we grin just because we're with each other.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I had this posted a couple days ago, but I got paranoid that it was awful and took it down. I was asked to re-post it, so this is me running across the coals a la Beesly and putting it back up.
The quote at the beginning is from a website called StoryPeople that is just lovely and filled with other amazing little life snippets. When I read this particular one, it made me want to write a Jim and Pam story - it's just so them. I don't own anything except my shiny (yes, shiny) new season 6 DVD.
The quote at the beginning is from a website called StoryPeople that is just lovely and filled with other amazing little life snippets. When I read this particular one, it made me want to write a Jim and Pam story - it's just so them. I don't own anything except my shiny (yes, shiny) new season 6 DVD.
