I wait for you, but I wonder. Is it meaningless? This sitting and standing, turning and pacing. This checking every aspect of everything, over and over again. Preparing every step, every dish.

And then, waiting.

Is this me on the edge of the kitchen door, bated breath, waiting to deliver the next course? Or is this dinner, on the table, getting cold?

I hope for one and fear the other.

If we were close, I’d ask you to confirm. Not to change your mind, but only to know where I am. How deep I’ve come into the stairwells of your heart. How many doors I’ve tried that remained locked. And, possibly, hints at least to where the keys are. So I can correct what needs correcting. So I can fix my standing. So I can more than please you, but help you expand, growing ever greater without end.

But these pages, I know, express a personality invisible.

It’s intentional. Don’t be distracted with the me behind the words. Only the me I give you. The palatable form. The one who the story is for. Narrator, reliable or not. That is what I offer up.

And yet. I too long to be known. Trusted. Well loved. I long to sit in your dining rooms and living rooms, talking story long into the night. Telling tilted ears of all the things I know, things I thought I knew, things I’ve learned, and ways I’ve grown.

But maybe, you don’t want to know.

Or, if you do, it comes later. Much, much later. Once you’ve learned to trust my narrators, learned to love the districts, learned to pity the exiles and officiates. Learned where the lines of good water and bad water collide. Where empathy and love, fear and hatred reside.

Once you love these, you may come to glimpse me. Not a face behind a mask but a name behind fingertips. Isn’t this always the autonomy I longed for? The slow building of safe places I needed to reside in. A special security in order to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced, and love wasn’t misguided, and all these eggs that I am definitely setting in this one pretty-well woven basket will be secure until they hatch?

Yes, but impatience is so much easier to succumb to than this waiting. This unknown. This questioning and dreaming, waking and trying, falling under the spell of wanting, wanting, wanting.

But patience is what will pull me through. Determination and commitment and endless trying.

Just like marriage.

Only this time, I’m no kid overburdened with social expectations I didn’t have the lenses to see. I have these glasses of social disillusionment and I’ve taken my hats of protection and self-preservation off. I’ve ripped open my shirt, exposed my chest, and let the world see it for what it is. And I know, full well this time, the costs. I’ve taken the time to make sure I know the definitions and the things I’ll need to survive. The expectations and the things success and/or failure will cost me.

I’m all in.

Dive head first into the water. Brace if it’s cold and swim to the bottom of the ocean where Atlantis is buried, find the treasure, and come back alive.

That’s all I’ve got to do?
Oh hell, I’m so ready.


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