it is one of those fights that make you see black

and black isn’t even a color

we stare out windows in the car trying to be bigger than our feelings because we are parents now and “i would rather our sons see us fight than not see us at all” trent once told me as i sobbed into a closet

and i wipe tears in the car and fumble for his hand, remembering the wooden bench, the one we passed while hiking rock-gorge and waterfall, the one that said “love, Jo”, inscribed to Harry, the one that said, “our love is here to stay”

and the touch of a hand is the touch of Jesus

“we can’t let satan destroy what we have,” he says. i nod.

we hold hands, our boys in the back, our love in pink flesh, and i think about how beautiful they are, how perfect their earlobes and i can’t remember what we’re fighting about anymore

“go slow, emily” friend’s words whisper as aiden crunches crackers and kasher grunts dreams. “these are golden days.”


this gold is a color, the color of our wedding bands, the color of heaven’s streets, and i remember the man who makes me laugh, the man who makes me feel everything to extreme and i run those streets into his arms and we’re smudged silhouettes, black against bright, and this is love with all of its mess, this is the color of love, and it’s etched permanent and it’s here to stay

(home now, making my way through your imperfect prose–thank you, dear friends)