Dark sandy hair springing back up after every relentless combover I perform with my fingers on the back of your head. Fluffy, faded material made up a blanket I'm guessing you've had since you were a little boy covers half of your naked shoulders. I know Weston's on the ground because I can hear him snoring and because I can feel his fur warming my feet. Every now and then, you readjust. You turn your head some which way, you roll your back up or down, you pull the covers up over your bareness just a tad bit more... but with every adjustment, you end it with a gentle squeeze of either my leg, my hand, my feet, and . . . other places.
We take in breaths. You ask me what mystery of the world I want answered, and that leads to a high quality discussion on multi-universes and extra terrestrial life. Jack the Ripper, autism, and Hitler's temperament are all honorable mentions.
Your skin is soft. Your voice is smooth. I smell burning cedar and lavender. I don't feel cold at all. I feel more than content. I feel...happy. Happy? I panic. I tell myself, I must remember all of this! I must write about everything happening. I must absorb this moment, and feel this emotion in all its entirety. This was a special cup of life, and I wanted to drink every drop.
So I try to focus on one thing at a time. The glistening of your wispy hair under the lamp light, the warmth of the blanket resting on half of you and half of me, the gentle humming of husky hearts surrounding us. All of it. And though I try and take in one little detail at a time, still, i'm so overwhelmed. And what's more overwhelming is that these little bits of the moment are all...so trivial. There are no fireworks. There is no lobster dinner. There are no expensive cameras or plane ticket to Paris.
I look down at you. Your face. A little tired. A little peaceful. A little perfect.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my chest. I feel me from the future looking in on this moment as a memory. I sense my own presence looking back at the me sitting here on the couch at this very instance.
I look around. My coat is hanging like the skin a lost winter soul has shed onto an old chair. It's there looming over us near the couch as a reminder that I only have a couple of hours to spare before I need to head back to my own freezing studio apartment where I will sit alone and do work to hopefully pay for some Christmas presents in December. Leftover Wendy's (what we lovingly call Wendicita's) is resting on the counter next to the sink. Cleaned and dried plastic containers rest next to the leftovers, ready to be used for packed lunches he'll take with him on his around-the-clock work adventures into leaky basements and whistling furnaces. The most luxurious item within sight is a singing fish that he had received last Christmas as a white elephant gift. He has it set up proudly in the middle of the room where the living and kitchen area blur together. Fancy.
Though I can feel her, the future me is no where to be seen. But her gaze is strong, and I know she's looking right at me the way young and determined adults look at children playing out on the playground, the way old adults look at young adults eating candle lit top ramen dinners, the way the elderly look at old adults who are enjoying their job security by spending too much time in the office. It's that look that says in the most straight forward fashion: You have no fucking idea.
And that's kind of the point. The kids on the playground don't know their parents will be divorced before they're out of high school or that recess doesn't exist in college. No, they have no idea. And they don't care that they have no idea. They're just kids on a playground. Laughing. Running. Screaming at the top of their little lungs because of cooties, and worms, and because being loud and full of nonsense is just...fun.
As if Future Me had invented a time machine in order to convey one single message to me, I was suddenly injected with a swell of emotion. I suddenly realized, with a conviction so strong it would match any religious follower in a sermon or loyal sports fan in a championship game, one thing:
I have no fucking idea how important this moment is.