Today, he stayed put. His head resting with ease as his legs sprawled out everywhere. I found his energy to be calming and for him, this was a first. I could watch him in slow motion. My legs were under his head, and his book was over top of his gaze. He used it to shelter the gorgeous sunshine that covered the lake at my cottage. He read Stephen King. I read Uta Hagen. As the waves crashed against my favourite log, the boat swayed to the rhythm of our heartbeats. “You’re thinking.” he suddenly blurted out, making me realize I wasn’t even looking at my book anymore. “What of?” He didn’t sit up when he said this. I liked that. I told him coyly about the cheesey-ness of this moment. How this is always the happy place I go to when I’m feeling anxious. It was weird, I told him, that it wasn’t a dream. I could truly be happy. The cottage, my book, the sun, my boy. Peace at last and I didn’t want to leave it. He dropped his book like a tent over his nose and moaned his usual sounds. I started to tense up out of fear that I said too much. When he recovered out of the book, he said ten words that I won’t forget:
Remember to receive the love you always seem to give.
Immediately after, his book closed and he sat up to stretch his long limbs. With a kiss and a smile, he strolled back to the cottage, yelling out: “Gonna go eat those chips and salsa cause they were BEAUTIFUL.” The feeling of peace kept with me even still.