I Do, You Do, We do.
“I have come to believe that lifelong love often looks extraordinary, yes, but it’s because we are faithful to love well in the ordinary minutes of our days,” Sarah Bessey
I’ll wake up for 8 am classes. You learn how to fix planes. I’ll wait for the Skype tone to chime. You send the chocolate-covered strawberries. I’ll count down the days and you surprise me before they run out.
You show me your hometown. I’ll squeak out, “I love you.” I’ll mail you colorful care packages. You stay up long after your shift to wish me goodnight through a computer.
I’ll fly across the country. You wait at baggage claim. I’ll slip into the bathroom in the terminal to freshen my makeup. You stare at me from the bottom of the escalator, wearing your uniform and my favorite smile.
We’ll figure out how to grow our love in four years, with 1800 miles between us.
I’ll walk through our favorite park holding your hand, the unknown promise clinging to the December air. You bend your knee and I’ll say yes—young hearts, new love.
Together, now.
Ready to take on the world now.
You flip through the journal that holds a year of my thoughts. I’ll tear up through my overdone makeup. You squeeze my hand as the world disappears. I’ll breathe in your scent as we kiss. You chuckle at the end of the aisle as I blubber down it, and I’ll wipe the lipstick off your face when we kiss again at the end of it.
I’ll clutch your hand in the grocery store, flooded with a different daily celebration. You build the furniture that arrives in pieces, adorning the apartment we are thrilled to make a home. I’ll make the dinner and you’ll fawn over my mediocre cooking skills.
You walk the puppy. I’ll get up and brush my teeth. You pretend to believe my breath is always this fresh. You’ll beam upon introduction at all the events and I’ll soak in the feeling when I hear you say “my wife.”
I’ll drag you to that house I saw online. You’ll fall in love, too. I’ll dream up the baby names, the wall colors, the holiday traditions. You trade in the sports car for something with a backseat.
We’ll carry a secret on Christmas Eve.
Ready as we’ll ever be.
The three of us, now.
I’ll choose the outfits, you tie the shoes. You play pretend, I’ll make the art. I’ll fan the dreams. You tug us back to reality. I’ll commission the clean-up. You count to three. You carry the calm and I’ll bring the whimsey.
I’ll feed the baby. You calm the big kid. I’ll set out the colored paper. You bring the dinosaurs to life. I’ll avoid saying no to the pony she asks for. You show them how to steer the electric car. You guide the read aloud, stacking one sound patiently after another and I’ll put shoes on the jittery toddler.
Again.
I’ll clean the puke, you console the puker. I’ll bake the cookies, you play in the snow. You send them back to bed, and I’ll smile when they appear hours later, their head fitting perfectly under the stubble of your chin.
You start the bath, I’ll clean the kitchen. You scold the waves that catapult from the tub, and I’ll grab a towel from the dryer on my way in. You enforce the routine; clothes, teeth, potty. I’ll set out the pajamas and toothbrushes. You lay one down for bedtime and I will the other.
We’ll reconvene to pick up the living room. Our silence settles alongside the soundtrack of flickering sound machines on the monitor—same hearts, weathered love.
Just us now, like before.
We’re still here, like before.
