I like to picture you first thing in the morning, bleary eyed and messy haired. You’d make yourself a cup of coffee, the sun outlining you in gold. I’d sit on the counter and we wouldn’t talk for a while because we understand that there better things to be shared in the silence.
I like to picture you last thing at night, how you always say a prayer but never go to church. I think you like to keep your faith private. We’ll touch our foreheads together and tell each other secrets because it’s easier to be honest in the dark and I’ll fall asleep, your heartbeat safely moored to mine.
I like to picture you talking to your mother, balancing the phone on your shoulder as your hands busy themselves with something mundane, but don’t get me wrong, your voice is so filled with love I feel as if I am intruding, as if I ought to step away and cover my ears. I’ll offer up a silent thank you to the powers that be for your mother, because she made you from scratch. You’ll see me hesitantly step in to the kitchen, and you’ll smile and hand the phone to me. Even this love, you share.
But for now, all I’ll do is picture you.