He sits at the edge of my bed and reaches for my hand, running his thumb over the metallic turquoise manicure done days earlier by my daughter. The paint now is chipped, broken. And that is how I feel.
My body, after four pregnacies and deliveries, is somehow broken. Not all the time and not without respite. But often enough for the sickness that pervades to leave me feeling chipped, marred. A body undone that leaves my spirit fragile.
I haven't slept well in days. The pain, when it subsides, leaves me weak but not empty. Somehow I remain fueled with the fears and sorrows of what I miss while in bed, what I will miss if this time I never get back up.
There are dark shadows beneath my eyes even though there has been no sun peeking through my window. The rain drips continuously outside, the sadness languishes inside.
Yet he too is constant. He comes to see what I need, if there is anything to be done to ease my suffering. No, this too will pass but until it does...we weather the storms.
In sickness and in health. Those were our vows. But any eventual sickness was thought to be only momentary, a hiccup but never an obstacle. We would pass through things but we would camp out under brighter skies with beautiful sunsets always on the horizon.
He says I'm beautiful, still. He looks past the bitterness, past the tears, past the wilting frame. He doesn't love me for what I look like or what I do or what I can offer him.
He loves me. Just me.
And that is a beautiful thing.
Today I write for 5 Minutes to remember the journey, the joys with the sorrows.