I haven't written in here forever. And I haven't written something for you, dear husband of mine, accessory to my many crimes and the most fabulous of my arch enemies.
The other day someone asked about the times when we lived in different countries and relied heavily on the written word in order for our love to get by. Now, we may lie adjacent but our dreams are thousands of miles apart.
How sad. Once I wrote a daily kilometric letter to you in the wee hours of the night. A letter you would wake up to. And you'd write back and I'd read you then when it was time for me to get up.
I wanted to tell you that lately I've been seing and reading blogs of young couples in love, and I think back when we were that ingénue. Before health care, child-rearing and huge life changes made us cynical.
I mourn the loss of that lovely naiveté, of all those bubblegum kisses, your silly songs and my long-lost idealistic romanticism. But know, now more than ever, that you are here to stay. That I can bicker, and yell, and curse, but I won't be storming out anymore.
I know the precise moment a certain innocence died for me. We were leaving the hospital to get a shower while a little super hero lied under the fluorescent lights, and we crossed paths with a couple just like us a few days before, walking stupidly enamored with their soft pillows and their yoga mats under their arms. I remember looking at them and thinking "Fools!".
We had crossed to the other side and I'm glad to be here with you.
But then, from time to time, I miss being stupidly naive with you.
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