Saturday [The Daydreamer...]

Sometimes, when I am babysitting, I pretend that the child is mine.

That there is a husband soon coming home to us,

and the clothes i iron are ours.

He woulld creep into our childs room and kiss them on the forehead as they sleep,

wrapped tight in dreams and love.

Come find me, by the fire place

[because i hate the cold and love,

like a cat, 

to curl up close to the warmth]

and he would sit, and sigh,

a release of all the tension built up during the day.

I would look at him and smile, 

a kiss lingering between us and then

i'd rub his back as he told me of his day.

A meal would be shared, simple, 

warming food, all prepared with love,

and eaten amidst laughter,

discussion, sharing and conspiring.

He'd reach for my hand across the table and tell me

he loves me,

and i'd smile,

safe in the knowledge that

should he never utter those words again in his life,

i'd know it anyway because it's in his eyes.

Later, we would curl up on the couch,

my head in his lap, and his fingers brushing out

imaginary knots in my hair.

The rain would drum its steady heart beat on the roof above and

we would stay

tucked up warm

safe in each other

safe in ourselves.

Sometimes, there would be arguments

disagreements

and days where he would come home to a cold dinner and an empty house.

But these moments, too

would pass,

and even in out most desperate, disastrous moments

I would always tell him that I love him,

before the blanket of sleep rendered all thoughts incoherent.

This kind of fantasy always gets sidetracked by one, sad, distraction.

This husband has no name, no face,

no shape to speak of.

I cannot tell you if his eyes are brown, or blue,

cannot tell you the colour of his hair,

or the sound of his voice.

I do not know his favourite food, the things that drive him and motivate him,

or the things that break his heart.

I only know that he is out there, somewhere.

That he will smile at me across the room

and ask me out for coffee

and that our lives will become so intertwined that we'll wonder how it is that we ever lived apart.

Dear husband:

I am waiting for you.

And in the meantime, I will work on making myself the best wife one could ask for.

Just for you.

Pour toujours.

maybe, one day, maybe, some day...