Something about the half-lit space
invites silence. Sacred and calm.
Sunlight, muted through treated windows,
still manages to splash into the scene —
its sepia-colored tint adding depth
to a landscape filled with shadows.
The silence, at home, speaks
to the darkened corners as
the expanding light blankets
everything with its warmth.
A peek above the clouds
reveals a glimpse of heaven.
The blue is bluer.
The white — purer.
How could it be otherwise?
I stand
feet firmly on the ground.
Daring to look up.
Daring to fly.
.
I do not love you more today
than the other 364 days in the year,
but I do not love you any less, either,
and would not miss the chance to tell you,
with hearts and flowers and silly cards
in a playful way, that I do, in fact,
love you more than x’s and o’s
and chocolate hearts and red roses,
or in our case,
yellow ones from deep in the heart of Texas.
I would not miss the chance to laugh at candy messages.
Your love is not rationed,
and who rations love, anyway?
It just grows and grows,
not in a neat way,
like you’d see in hallmark cards,
but in messy diapers, and overtime,
in disappointments and failures,
in missed opportunities and risks not taken,
And blossoms in warm snuggles and happy reunions,
in proud moments and accomplishments,
in moments seized and showers of blessings.
It’s not a day, but a lifetime.
