This is life, these moments. The hand of my husband, soft and warm, in mine. The dusty bedroom full of clothes and strong-willed cats. Boxing up the possessions that weigh us down. Signing 80 hours of my next however many months away to work on my grandpa’s house in exchange for rent while we hunker down, safe in the hills with the eucalyptus and redwood trees shielding us against the view of the city and it’s economic storm clouds down below.
This is my life, rusty as my breath tastes coming fast as my heart pounds through it’s thick walls of sinew and flesh and blood. As I drop the person I care about most in the world off at the airport for a business trip. As I drive away, after lingering in the park zone as long as I can, watching him go.
This is the cost. Everything I believe in, everything I am, wrapped up in his arms before he kisses me goodbye.
We’ve lost so much these last months. Job, apartment, money, health, our dog’s leg to the trust and faith of surgery.
What we’ve gained, as the world has constricted around us like the throat of a viper on two tiny mice, is the only thing we really had all along. Each other. Trust. Patience. Love.
And in moments like these, my heart skips a beat as I realize just how much more I have to lose.