He makes me want things. No. He makes me believe I can have things. Things I always thought I deserved. Things I knew I believed in. Things I learned to write off as whim or whimsy or fancy of youth. Things I labeled and filed away and moved on from but always missed. He makes it seems easy to just get up and do it and be me. He makes me feel light on my feet.
I am not light on my feet.
Sometimes I get a glimpse of myself in contrast to these hopeful feelings, though, and I feel old. So old. I remember how old I’ve been and I feel even older. I see him, young and healthy and lithe in the sunlight and I run out to join but I also can see my lines illuminated in the glare.
And I wonder if this youthful hope, this renewed enthusiasm is nostalgia for what I’ve been or should have been, many years ago, or if it’s the inkling of who I could become if I just gave into the inertia of hoping and trying and moving and skipping.
Once upon a time when both of us were napping in the sun I realized with comforting clarity that I loved him. It didn't really matter if he loved me but I suspected he did, in his fashion. It was a love without ownership, without details of romance or obligation or desire, without future or past, something I trusted in that moment, something clearly present in the now and it was more than enough and it made me feel safe. It made me feel warm. It made me feel real.
Sometimes I just don’t know what to do so I try to remember it’s a feeling, not a thought, and that I should enjoy my good feelings when I have them. I try to hold the hope.