It’s dark. It’s early. I’m awake.
He’s left the shades up this time like I asked (again), and I’m glad. I like to watch the morning come. Another beginning.
I’m pretty sure he’s awake, too.
I wonder if he knows I am.
I’m still. My head and heart are so heavy with to-do’s and needs.
He lifts himself up on one elbow, looks over me to check the clock.
It’s not time yet.
I think about getting up anyway. But still I lie.
Our pastor told us yesterday about Vince Lombardi. How sometimes he would hold up a football in the locker room and announce, “This is a football.”
But Vince believed that for a team to function effectively, it was important to come back to the fundamentals, the basics, the beginning. Our pastor reminded us that the purpose of the game is to move the football. If the whole team runs to the goal without the ball, the whole effort is in vain.
He holds up what he calls the most dangerous book in the world. “This is a Bible.”
It’s holy, he tells us. Set apart. A different kind of book that changes lives. God-breathed.
And I think even the mature sometimes need a cup of milk. And what waste is the race without the book. And how sometimes we need to return and rehearse the beginning.
He throws the covers back, sits on edge of bed, tap-tap-taps on flip phone. Its light illuminates the dark. I suspect he’s shutting off the alarm.
He stands, folds covers back down, steps away, and then returns to smooth them again. I like to think he’s tucking me back in so I stay toasty, but he may just want to keep the cat off his pillow.
We used to rehearse it all every anniversary. Our beginnings. How we met, where we went, what we did, the feelings we shared. How we’ve survived so many things that would have shred a weaker bond. Sometimes he sang all the western theme songs to me.
But there’ve been so many anniversaries and so many years, and we haven’t done that for so long.
I strain in the dark to remember.
I wake, and light illuminates the dark. He’s moving around the room, and the scent of his cologne fills the air.
Somehow I’ve created a little tent for myself. He pulls back a flap and kisses my forehead. “Bye.”
I won’t see him for four days. “Do you have your phone charger?” I ask.
I think while he’s gone, I’ll pull together all the albums. We need to rehearse our beginnings again. Before we forget.
He leaves and turns off the light. I listen as his car turns out of the drive.
I reach for the Droid. Its light illuminates the dark. I open the Bible app. In the beginning . . .
And Light illuminated the dark.
And He did.
And I do.