Monday, June 30, 2014

Getting reacquainted

*I started this post back in February and just realized that I'd never finished it!

The late afternoon sun casts a glow on our faces as we sit near the place we sat ten years ago. A decade. The original coffee shop has closed, but this one's more quaint, just down the street, and a little more hipster than we can pull off. We sit down anyway and share a latte because we're still too cheap to buy our own and too old to handle the caffeine so late (even decaf). I don't put up a fuss when he drinks more than his share, but also notice him making efforts to ration himself, accommodating my leisurely pace when it comes to anything culinary.

I steal a glance across the blue and white mosaic table and smile. Ten years of looking into those eyes and it's still hard to look away sometimes. But just to bait him, I look out the window at the shop next door. 

"I brought something I think you'll like."

His eyes flicker, curious; we no longer have to use words.

But words are what I have. Lots of them. Pages and pages of them. From ten years ago, when he first worked up the courage to ask me out. I pull the marble black and white journal from my purse, and what surprises me most is how it feels in my hand when its closed--how it's warped and thick, like it ate a little too much for dinner, how much life bulges under the cover. It's old and familiar all at the same time, and what I don't realize is that I'm about to reacquaint myself with myself as I read pages aloud.

We read and read and laugh and laugh. About how we've changed. About how right or wrong our early impressions were. About our naivety. It's an evening of remembering, and those are important.

As I read, I find a young woman who's me but not me; I know her and I don't. I'm fascinated by her and learn from her but am so glad I'm not her anymore. I love being a decade in, having nestled into life and mess and adventure and humdrum with this man. To live long enough to have a little perspective and to have the word "mature" mean more about my age than my behavior.

I lean over to put the journal back in my purse, noting briefly--and almost lovingly--the soft curves of my middle that gave life to our two children, and I don't think my decade-ago self could have ever imagined this--all of this that isn't perfect and isn't easy but is good and deep and unexpected and wonderful and ours until death do us part. 

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