8:06

It's 8:06 in the morning. Upon awaking, my eyes are jostled by the sound of my alarm. I look over and you're still sleeping. It's routine for me to roll over and kiss your back. It's funny; sometimes I find myself inhaling the aroma of it--that's a smell that will never fail to incite pure happiness.

You know, there is something so genuine about the moments shared with someone you love implicitly. The mannerisms they perform are not something that is put on as a show--it's more than that. The comfortability that develops is bar none, and I think there is something so damn beautiful about two creatures sharing an emotion, without saying two words to each other.

It's 8:10 in the morning, and you've started making coffee. At this point, I've wondered how you slept and given you that good morning kiss I so eagerly await. The sound of the machine awakens our guinea pigs, of whom which so lovingly refer to as "piggins." Our lingo is something I don't expect people to understand, nor do I really care. Mornings with you are arguably one of the most treasured moments of my life, and until this point, I hadn't appreciated the simplicity of sharing the company of another human being. Perhaps, in my own self-hatred prior, I came to detest the presence of such, and that presence made me afraid. What a strange thing it is to abuse something as precious as a human heart and mind. You and I both knew of the things that elapsed with time; it was something I seldom find myself telling you. Whether I tell you out of regret or tell you out of pity for myself--I'll never know, but I know that your eyes tell me something I have not seen in any man.

It's about 8:25 in the morning, and you've served me fruit. I've never had the experience of a man waking every morning before work, cutting me fresh fruit. Guilty, I ask you for help, but you deny me and ask me politely to sit and allow me to be served. What is this gesture of kindness? I realize in these moments with you, that my confessions of a fractured heart are merely nothing more than a girl who almost suffered a broken one. I guess, in these moments of clarity, I realize that something forbade into my heart breaking completely. My heart breaking completely was an impossibility--as you know my mother, and my mother did not raise us to quit.

It's now 8:37 in the morning. I'm putting on the socks that I place on the table every morning...right before I brush out my "stump of grandaddies" as my mom calls my hair. You're still finishing your fruit across from me. The sock and sandal combo you're wearing is a reminder of how much those "little things" really matter. It's then I honestly realize that I don't know what I would do without you. To wake up every morning and not see the freckles that are speckled on your back like paint; the smell of your hair when it's still semi-stuck with hair gel; the way your belly moves when you breathe. Those things are some of the best things I have come to love over time, and not sharing a moment like this would be a worthless life. I stand, put on my shoes, and look into your daughter's room at our little piggins that are now eating their greens, apples, and pears. It's then, do I understand the significance of my life. And all those things that existed before you--before this--well...it doesn't matter anymore.

It's now 8:46 and I'm beginning to make my way out the door. You so carefully place my coffee and water on the mantle like the gentleman you are. Making your way around, your kiss is the last thing I feel. "Drive safe, my love" are words that I don't think I could live without. Descending down the steps, my car is parked in spot 127 as it always is. Opening the (bent) door, I sit in my car and prepare myself for the drive to work. I look up at the window one, last time and say to myself, "Damn, now I understand what it means to truly love someone."

It's in those moments that a smile erupts from my face, and I think of how if you were not here, your absence would surely be horrible. It's in these moments, that if you were not here--well, driving past a pear tree everyday would always remind me of that man that gave me a home once again.

(For Jim)