I awoke that cold, early morning and turned my body toward her form; she lay slumbering angelically beneath the quilts. I propped myself up on one elbow and gazed at her, wishing fully memorize the visual imagery of that moment. In the shimmering clarification, from the living illumination of those innumerable diamonds, pulsating and twinkling in the inky sky of the hill country, I saw the glowing opalescence of her skin. It was the last moment of night, those seconds just before the birth of a new sun first defines the razor-edge contour of the horizon, gilding it with a thin line of light—it was the genesis of a cold November day in the rolling hills of the country.
Her face completely untouched by time, she blossomed in life, those were the years of youth, our youth. Her half-lit face basking in the glow of the first dawn’s saffron rays diffused through the window, wood framed, and coated with lightly cracked white paint, it was one of the original windows of the house of three generations-our home.
It is that glass pane that bore the condensation of our night’s sleep. This condensation was the moisture respired from rising and falling bosoms, mine touching her back, feeling it rise and fall in the embraces of slumber.
The moisture of our life breaths, left from a night of warming a cold room in November. I got out of bed lightly, quietly. Wrapped in a blanket to keep the warmth against my flesh, I walked to the window. I touched the glass, the pane was cold, and I felt the moisture of our sleep wet on my finger. I made a streak with my finger; drops ran from its edges. I exhaled and the vapor of my breath filled the line in translucence.
Getting back in bed, I see her long, curling, tendrils of tussled chestnut hair; I smelled it, my nose just shy of touching the dark strands. The soft tussled strands sleep wore the scent; it is her scent, the organic pheromones that bore the most innocent, loving, un-whispered, beckoning of marriage that still was young and innocent in its pure monogamous human concupiscence.
Her chestnut hair was a splayed silken morass, spreading across a warm pillow. She was soft legs, which were warm against my hamstrings on a cold winter night. She was a perfect curve of the neck, the arc of a warm breast, the contour of a hip, and a naked shoulder that I woke up to in the night and loved to pull the hand-made patchwork quilt back over.
She was wide, sleepy brown, eyes—eyes that compelled my deepest trust by never asking for it, eyes which showed no sign of judgment nor embarrassment, of me or her; they were eyes that showed loving acceptance, for me, my body, my strengths and my insecurities.
These are eyes that willingly revealed everything about her, and in doing so belied absolutely nothing I could not accept and love; they were eyes that looked into mine with devotion; they were eyes that her gaze met with mine when we made love, with our hands and fingers intertwined, and clutched tight.
These eyes made me feel like a man, they made me feel strong. When she was anxious, like when black thunderclouds rained down angry tears that strike our tin roof. When those eyes had worry and looked into mine, and that worry melted, I was stronger and more of a man. I was protecting her, and she was not afraid, she buried her head in my chest and wrapped on arm around my shoulder, the other under my neck and I would be intoxicated with the scent of her body and hair.
And when I held her, I felt greatly, emotionally moved by my realization that I was able to protect her and give succor. I would gently weep trembling in the emotions which ran down my being like a bucket of warm water. And I was not ashamed. And she would embrace me tighter, smiling she whispered in my ear that it was wonderful to be able to cry in front of her. Then she would put her cheek back on my chest, nuzzle it, and fall into a deep, safe slumber listening to the soft sounds of the thump bump of my heart.
They are the only eyes that I would attempt to walk to the end of the earth to look into, as they tell me she truly loves me, and that she will stay with me; they are eyes that I will grow old with and when I look into them I will always feel young again. We lived then almost omnipotent, in the knowledge, we would be young forever,—certain in the glorious delusion the young always have, that their bodies are immune to old age and decay.
That resplendent fleeting eternity will live forever in her eyes.