. On Whatever You Call It .

It feels like June. Warm on your face and the days are long and you have a sense of peace. 
    No where to go. 
    No where to be.
    Holy minutes moving past.

It feels like your favorite dress. Indigo. It ties in the back and it hugs your hips. 
    You dance in it.
    You sway in it.
    Free and barefoot and a laugh calling out from your lips.

It feels like home, with a foundation that doesn’t have cracks and windows that don’t let in the cold. 
    Solid and purposeful.
    Warm and true.
    Always there at the end of the day.

It feels like running a race and your legs are tired and your sweat pours down your pink cheeks.
    Euphoric and hard.
    Victorious and necessary.
    Imperative.

It feels like every old argument about how it can never be real has died a quick, ashy death in your throat.
    And that ash nourishes your beating heart.
    And the thump, thump, thump of your still beating heart calls to you -
        Yes. It is real.

It feels like the moment you stepped into your new school in sixth grade.     
    New shiny shoes and hopeful brown eyes.
    Your belly full of I don’t knows and your mouth full of hellos.
    Resolute and surprisingly powerful strides.

It feels like the first time you got it right in every single thing all rolled into one.
    The first job you loved.
    The first car you bought.
    The first algebra assignment you didn’t flunk. 
    The first.
    The first.
    The first.

It feels like the sunsets in college when you were drunk on cheap booze.    
    Your friends were there.
    The night air was warm on your skin.
    All of that liberty, and faith, and virgin space still open in your heart was still there.

It feels warm. Sort of like your mother’s palm on your cheek, and sort of like your dad’s laugh.
    But not quite.
    More like his smile from across the room.
    Or his warm fingers on your back.

It feels like clean sheets or the first snow or the way the world hopes when the crocuses start to bloom.
    The pool when you were five.
    The best happy hour drink after a long week.
    The cool side of the pillow.

It feels like everyone that you love the most singing you happy birthday at the same time.
    Their smiles shining brighter than the candles.
    Their harmony lost somewhere between the sweet vanilla frosting and the chocolate     
    cake.
    An embarrassed, charmed smile calling out from your lips.

It feels like all of that, but so much more.

When you find someone whose hand fits in yours.
Whose step matches yours.
Whose broken pieces fit into your broken pieces.
    Like some kind of child’s puzzle. 
    Like some kind of story you read over and over.
    Like some kind of key and lock combination that you didn’t even know existed.

You will beg for it to not end. 
You will beg for just one more second 
    even though there are thousands of seconds in front of you
    you will still watch the horizon for the end - 
    waiting -
    waiting -    
    waiting - 
    for some other shoe to drop and 
    then you can say …

I saw it coming.
But I couldn’t look away.

Because of the soft breath on my neck
Because of the way his warm skin felt on my weary cheek
And because of the way he whispered he loved me in the dark.

Yes. 

It feels like the fireworks on the Fourth and the first pumpkin patch visit in October and the big, colored Christmas lights in December, and the first roar of spring in March.

It feels like your daddy’s approval and your momma’s raised eyebrows.
It feels like the tombstone shining in the sun of every last lover before him. 

You will call it love, but really …
    Really.
​
It is so much more. 

xoxo, B.

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