he’s in his robe, the brown one with terry cloth and aiden, to bed, and the house is ours, the night a swing on which to dangle, me in my pajamas, the cotton ones and he puts a hand on the rounded place, the space that grows, the God whirling life within

it’s popcorn for us and we’ve done this for eight years, this courting the night in our cotton and terry cloth. it’s a space in which we hide, this couple married in my parents’ backyard under hot of July, this couple that fought on honeymoon over having kids, me not wanting them, this couple that punched walls and wondered if two could ever become one, each night we carve a space like the pink flesh of melon and we eat it sweet.

the popcorn, salty and our toes touch and we watch a show and our laughter marries. and when it’s over we talk of our son, for we miss him, tiptoe to his room to watch him sleep all baby breath and pink cheeks and then we pull out the home videos and remember.

and time becomes a thing attached to the feet of our toddler.

it’s funny this way the making love between man and wife births new love: in tiny fisted form, and in the kind that is content to just hold in bed, the breath of skin enough, between.

with ann, now, to utter thanks:

261. long slides down white hills
262. hot chocolate steaming insides
263. baby’s rosy cheeks
264. warm blueberry scones
265. friends over to drink coffee, eat scones
266. a surprise package
267. spicy homemade tomato soup
268. the sound my son’s feet make on snow
269. the sound of my son laughing in his sleep
270. a kiss, like it was the first time