rx for the long, cold, lonely winter: re-runs

Now that my kids are back in school, I must learn how to write again. I hope to get going by the end of the week. Until then, I'll be posting a few slightly edited re-runs, like this one for my husband, from 2010:

Dear Darling, (Because "dear" rather than "little" is what I hear at the beginning of that old Beatles song)

I must confess, though surely it comes as no surprise to you, that there are moments -- late at night, when I’m watching some movie on Lifetime, or midday when I'm cleaning up the house, or early morning when I wake feeling all alone in the world -- when I wish for more. Or maybe less, depending on just how sorry I’m feeling for myself at the time. Then there are other more specific moments, like the one when Keanu --or whoever the doe-eyed leading man happens to be-- leans in for the first slow motion kiss, that take my breath away and stir up feelings of wistfulness, first in my tummy, then on my own dry lips. And in those moments I wonder what it might be like to fall in love, again. For the first time, as it were. Is there perhaps, I think to myself, some soul-mate out there whom I've missed out on because of this gold ring I wear? The lie that only new love is fresh love presses through the cracked open door of my mind, and if I don’t watch out, that powerful killer can steal away to my heart, rending it vein from pulsing ventricle.

I know the way to stop it in its tracks, but I don't always choose to, and for that I am sorry.
However, the times I do see the farce for what he is, the times I forbid him passage to the weakness below my collarbone, those are the times I watch the wistful moments flee, dear darling. For soon you return from your nightly distractions or daily duties, and you look at me the way you always have when you truly look at me. Or I myself walk down the hall, past the picture of you holding me aloft in that fluorescent hallway where first we fell head over heel; and I remember how good and true is the story we live together. It's then I find myself asking, as well as answering, if it’s not complete sacrilege to borrow and reinterpret words from old St. Peter: Darling, to whom would I go? You have the words of my life. I believe and know that you are the one God has chosen for me.
All the logos you've shared with me through the years, John, are too numerous to count . . . words scribbled on cases for mix tapes; words passed on notepads in British Lit; words written in fingertip, across open palms; words, obviously, whispered in darkness, stolen in secret, launched in anger, and pronounced in truth. There were words shared in books and poems and songs, but it’s the words that hovered, floating above our laughter, those words became flesh and still dwell among us, everyday in the bodies of our children. All these words we carry around in the treasure chest of our hearts, they tell the story of us. And some words we may never let out, while some escape only through hushed sleeping sighs to fill up non-listening ears. Yet they are not robbed of their power, for our words have life and this life can be a light. Not because of you, not because of me, and not because of our perfect faithfulness to each other. Rather it is because of the Light our words bear witness to, a Love which shines in the darkness of our mistakes and shortcomings.
Thank you for loving me this way, full of grace and truth, reflecting the glory of the One and Only. Thanks for forgiving me of all those stolen moments, as if they cost you nothing at all. But mostly, thank you for your words of kindness, love and encouragement, in all our years together. I celebrate you today and all the new words of the year to come. I love you more than any of them can say. 

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