Home Away From Home

Tonight, I think of home. I think of hot monsoon storms that rage like swift bursts of emotion, swirling around the valley in fits of anger, or fear. I think of our first monsoon together. After the thunder and lightning dared us for hours to show our faces we climbed up to your roof. We kissed as our intrepid fingers traced drops of rain and sweat in each other’s hair and down each other’s arms. My heart raged as an unguarded storm. Prompted by the smell of coming clean, I allowed myself to love you.

I think of the chill when climbing out from the chlorine water followed by the hot flash of lying on the burning deck. I think of the day we stretched out on that pink deck. The sun tickled evaporating water off our bodies. I stared at you and noticed the divine transparency of your pale skin, showing so many blue veins underneath. Though pulled taut over strong limbs, it seemed to be tissue paper, so thin and fragile. Imagining I could rip open your body like a birthday present made me fear for all the times I would probably tear through you over the years, but I knew we would remain intact.

I think of soft winter grass overshadowed by swooping citrus trees with ripe fruit. I think of us sitting cross-legged from the vantage point in the yard where everything looks magical. Wind rustled the leaves and branches creaked as we mixed childhood memories with plans to make new memories in our own yard. Dazzled by your country-boy hopes for football games beyond the porch you’d build and long weekend barbeques, I admired your aspirations for a family.

I think of long walks through the neighborhood, strolls down those familiar streets where I had trick-or-treated, learned to ride my bike, and ran like mad during Capture the Flag. I think of announcing “We’re going on a walk,” to my mom who then begged us to take the under-exercised dogs with us. You agreed even though you don’t really care to spend any extended amount of time with animals beyond a pat on the head and an occasional scratch behind the ears. And you agreed again when she and I came out with the camera and you knew you were in for a long haul of posing. You played with my lifelong, furry friends for hours. Although I knew our main differences might never change, I realized you would stop at nothing to make me happy.

I think of my parents’ gorgeous home, especially the ornate front room with the baby grand piano, blush walls, and collections of mom’s figurines and dad’s Shakespeare. I think of long talks with you on couches almost too beautiful to sit on. It was there we first felt the magnetic pull to one another as pressing deadlines got pressed further and further back into the evening. You kept announcing “Ten more minutes,” and “Fifteen minutes, for real this time,” but hours passed as we delved deeper with story after story. As that first summer’s sun set, we said goodnight and I hoped we would last past the summer’s end goodbye.

Tonight, I think of home. But just like you fill every part of my life now as my husband, you consume every memory. This seems to be a sign of what’s yet to come. As years pass and we become so intertwined, I will strain to remember a time without you. Your memories will become mine at dinners, grandkids weddings and our golden anniversary, and vice versa. We will know each other’s every quirk and hope and dream and lifelong secret. And I realize that although I am away from the Arizona sun, fresh oranges picked from trees by the trampoline, and Pomegranate Street, in you I have a new home.

Tonight, I think of you.