Bloom

I am happy. Over the moon, want to do cartwheels, can’t stop smiling, happy.

This level of happy is accompanied by panic and terror that wants to be all-consuming, but can’t be, because the happy keeps pushing it away.

We all remember what happened the last time I was this happy. But this is different. I feel it in my bones.

There are no red-flags. There is no “well, we don’t have that much in common, but maybe it won’t matter.” There’s no “I think he’s great, I just don’t know if he’s great for me,” and no “we have tons in common but I can tell he’s a heart-breaking sadist.”

There is only laughing and talking for hours over shared experiences of religion, marriage, surprise babies (one boy, one girl), wanderlust, politics, social issues. There are runs for lemon gelato when my throat hurts, opening the car door,  asking what I want at restaurants and then ordering for me, taking my food off our shared platter and putting it onto my plate.

Letting me know when he’s in the part of the hospital without cell reception, the sending of funny, ridiculous selfies, all day text banter, discussions of books and music.

Asking permission to kiss me the first time. Butterflies in my stomach. Butterflies that eventually ignite and set me slowly on fire, turning from a spark into a flame, while the days pass until we are consumed in an inferno.

This is what happens when you take it slow: A kiss releases a churning which becomes a storm, and eventually, though you had not planned it, you are grasping, gasping, desperate, and the cool night air comes in through the moon roof, and suddenly the seats are pushed forward and folded down, and you are in the back of a car, on a quilt, ripping each others’ clothes off like two teenagers.

The stars wink at you and you remember when you found the Dippers and Orion, that he brought you out here to see the Northern Lights, which you’ve never seen before and are not out tonight, but you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care because you just want him. And he wants you. And this is soul deep, it is not about your bodies, which are both flushed and covered with goosebumps. It’s about your mutual craving–your soul reflected back at you–being a lady and a gentleman, and then going animal without the slightest warning.

You are happy as hell. He is happy as hell. The fear is there but you know it isn’t because of who he is. It is because of who you are–what you’ve been through.

You tell yourself, I will not rush. If this is what I think/hope/pray it is, it will work out. If he is who I want, and I am who he wants, we will be together. If not, we will go our separate ways, and it will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay.

I will not cling to it, and I will not run away from it. I will let it bloom and see what it turns out to be.

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