The Time Between

He will love Bruce Springsteen and other storyteller musicians and he will tell me this passionately at his sister’s art show

And he will drink his coffee black while reading the morning news–moved by the good and never defeated by the bad.

He will know the scientific names of plants and herbs, especially the fun, medicinal ones–even though that phase of his life is over

He will have a handsome, sturdy face with kind eyes and a thick beard which he’ll take pride in and trim when he visits his mother

And then he will shave completely and the stubble will rub my cheek and bare shoulder as we dance at a cousin’s outdoor wedding

He will woo old women with his chivalry and he will hold fat babies and wobbly puppies close to his chest with no need for ownership

He will hold me the same way

I will have learned to budget and still be a clumsy untrained artist who can’t help but create. He will love to budget and will quickly learn how to create sturdy, practical things: a wind chime here, a step stool there–birthed from knotty pine and delicate birch.

We will fantasize about selling our creations so we can live minimally in a van on the California coast, eating mango and coconuts, splashing in the ocean, meditating every morning and sleeping under a crisp down blanket every night

In the time between, we will dream of sand, art, each other’s faces, and the van. We will both hear Springsteen over the car radio, or in a grocery store buying dinner, or late at night in our hometown bar

And he will smile to himself and I will too

In the time           between

Image Credit: @annigraham