tedlowe

I get up a good bit earlier than Keith and sometimes, like this morning, when I go to wake him up, my heart bleeds wide and warm with a tenderness of love perhaps reserved for the older. This peculiar concoction of affection and compassion and gratefulness and brokenness and sadness over time fleeting and wonder over time past. This love that no longer has the luxury of naivety. This love that still remembers the pain two people who’ve been together as long as we have inevitably put one another through. And I lean over and kiss his gray head and say good morning just as he, who stays up later than I, last night leaned over and kissed what is, no doubt somewhere under all the color and highlights, my equally gray head and said sleep tight. I don’t know what I’m trying to say or why I wanted to say it here. I find that, the older I get, the more comfortable I am leaving a writing without drawing a conclusion. To just leave it be and sit there in the wonder.