My Lover, My House

 

My Lover, My House

When I found you, past lovers had left their mark and stain,
Had given you such baggage, such deep and lasting pain.
I pulled a rotten mattress from your damp basement
And dried the sodden air.
I peeled back your carpets — that stained facade
And polished the hard oak core that had stood the test of time.
They say love teaches you, and I was so afraid at first to find your breaker,
Yet so confident as I pulled your innards through a power box and rewired your switch.
I shocked myself, your power coursing through my body like a rush.
Love is listening, and I pay attention to every groan and wrinkle

I kneel on the floor and run my fingers along the crack between the baseboard and the wall.

I smooth drywall mud over scars and come back the next day to sand it smooth.

I make lists of all the things we’ll do together

The painting, the replacing, the building and shaping.

I nudge and change where I can but I love your imperfections even more.

The mismatched light fixtures room to room

A glow from each era to keep away the gloom.

Additions growing ring by ring, each prayer for space came true —

Each family fed their Calcifer, and out new chambers grew!

I’m curious about that past…

And so grateful to live in your future.

Love is knowing what I need before I even know myself

That bathtub beckoning, that tea kettle brewing, lights turning on at sunset

My hand reaches out for the switch, and you’ve already lit the path.

I fall apart, and you gather me up — bed made, sheets that smell like home, a soft blanket, heavy and warm.

Love, love, they say, is admiration.

I sit with my tea each morning and

Gaze adoringly into the face

Of my treasured paintings on your wall.

I watch the frozen garden out the window

Seeing cold white light refracted into rainbows through your cut glass.

Love is a conversation, a negotiation, and I do talk out loud, sitting in my red chair.

I’m not sure you hear me, but I spill my soul like to no other.

Love is care.

I listen to the whoosh of hot air rushing through your vents

And wonder if the furnace is ok

It’s old, but not that old.

Love is fear.

A fallen tree, a tipped candle, some tragedy I could not foresee.

These are my nightmares.

Life is fleeting.

Skin and bone, timber and plaster —

They crumble in the force of nature’s chaos:

One day, tomorrow, next year, a hundred years away.

But here and now, these four walls have broken down my walls

And rebuilt a better “me.”

My lover, my house, and the home we make.

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