If he never came home…I think that I would grow old, and write stories…and drink too much wine…but my eyes would show…. and you would see.. great sadness and loss, and wisdom… the wisdom to know that I have had what others sought… even if for a short time…

I could never be with another again. They say the heart is an organ made of fire, and I believe this to be true. It burns in me each time he walks through that door. I listen for his key each night, and it starts my heart to beat. His touch brings me to life, and gives me power and the strength that people say I have.

He knew…. even before I did…. or before I was brave enough to admit it, that there would be no others like us. There would be no one who would bring me to my knees with just a smile.

The beauty of it reminds me of a time when I was a child in church. I was alone, after midnight mass, waiting for my Grandmother to finish talking to the minister about the floral arrangements. I was maybe 6. I walked down the long aisle of our church in the near darkness, except for the many candles. My small hands ran along the smooth, dark mahogany of the pews, as I moved closer and closer… I knew God was there. I felt him and I wanted to touch Him. I walked slowly with tears in my eyes, being afraid. As I neared the front of the church I looked up at the stained glass windows and saw the moon shining though. Suddenly I was no longer afraid and I walked faster. I was over come with a sense of power…. and knelt right there in the front of the empty church. It was a tribute from my heart…and I know God saw me there… I know he smiled down on me… When we are six- what do we know of emotion other than purely what we feel?

This happened to me again, nearly 30 years later…… and I’m not confusing Him with God… but here it is…there is this man… who is so much a part of me… and who I am that I cannot imagine ever being alone again. And there are times when he walks in the door and I am six again, and I want to kneel because there are no words I can say… There was never any one before who was going to take care of me, but me. There was never any one who would read my words, who would understand, or even try.

– Me